


The Book of Gand, Part the Second: The Findsman's Apprentice

by Findswoman



Series: The Book of Gand [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, Alien Rituals, Angst, Gand - Freeform, Gand Findsman, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-27 18:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30126963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: Zuckuss's story, apprenticeship, and tribulations continue as he comes to terms with his family's legacy--and gains an apprentice of his own. It begins one year after the events ofThe Book of Gand, Part the First: The Findsman's Son.
Relationships: Zuckuss (Star Wars) & Original Character(s)
Series: The Book of Gand [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216559
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first part of The Book of Gand was originally posted between January 2015 and February 2016 on the Jedi Council Forums at TheForce.net (the original story thread is [here](https://boards.theforce.net/threads/the-book-of-gand-mostly-ocs.50019763/)). Chapters were beta-read by **Kahara_the_ghostly_galoomp** , **WarmNyota_SweetAyesha** , and **Ewok_Poet**.

The first glimmers of morning twilight sifted through the golden mists hovering around the ancient mountains of the pocket colony of R’Kalýma. Set into these mountains like a jewel was the temple of the Lhúdanswani, one of the oldest and most respected all the Findsman sects of Gand, founded by Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd himself. Like his father, brother, and ancestors before him, it was here that Zuckuss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd was undergoing his studies in the ways of the Findsman.  
  
It had gone well so far. Exactly a year ago, he had been introduced to the assembled Master Findsmen of the Lhúdanswani temple, blessed and consecrated to the service of the sect, and led for the first time into the temple’s large central training arena to begin learning the elementary techniques of the ancient Gand combat arts. Like all beginning apprentices in the Lhúdanswani sect, he had undergone a year of intense physical and spiritual training. Rigorous physical exercise had alternated with periods of rudimentary meditation and devotion with only brief periods of rest between, bolstering even further the natural Gand ability to store sleep. Day in and day out Zuckuss had applied himself devoutly and enthusiastically to this vigorous regimen. By all accounts he was making exceptional progress: it was said that he had even begun to experience intuitive visions during his practice meditations. His fellow apprentices, both novices and the more experienced, respected him, flocking to him for advice on their own studies and requesting him as a sparring partner. Their admiration filled him with secret pride, though he always took care to comport himself in public with the requisite decorum and humility. Even more secret, however, was the relief he felt at no longer having to endure his father’s morose jealousy—at least not for more than for a few days during sporadic holiday periods.  
  
And now, as the first golden-white glimmers of Te’el-Viire-Gand (as Gand’s star is known to the planet’s inhabitants) filtered in through the small window of his cell-like quarters, Zuckuss was preparing himself for the important and eventful day ahead. Over a brown linen tunic and breeches—similar in color to his own chitin, as was traditional for the innermost clothing layer of a Findsman apprentice—he buttoned his golden-brown underrobe, which he fastened at the waist with a fringed sash. Next he donned his outer robes, simple brown and homespun in design, suitable for both exertion and contemplation. Finally he strapped on his outer belt and buckled on his _filg_ -leather boots. He did not yet have the Findsman’s customary armor or shoulder harness, which were only given to more advanced apprentices; even those who had earned them almost never used them during regular temple training.  
  
By now Te’el-Viire-Gand had indeed fully risen, as proclaimed by the silver glow of the mountains and the aquamarine radiance of the clouds. Zuckuss knew he would be expected soon before three examiners—a _ruetsavii-tí’kaa_ —for a formal evaluation of his progress. If this evaluation was satisfactory, one of the three would become his own Findsmaster, with whom he would continue his studies individually on a more advanced level.  
  
Zuckuss left his room and continued down a narrow hallway of brightly colored stained glass that reminded him of those glowing hallways in the Great Temple the year before; these hues were not as bold or deep as those he remembered, but they were perhaps warmer and cheerier. Little colored flecks of light danced on him and the other apprentices passing by as they exchanged gestures of greeting.  
  
Finally Zuckuss halted before the door to one of the temple’s many teaching rooms. He knocked by tapping three times gently with a single claw, following proper Lhúdanswani protocol.  
  
“Enter,” a voice said from within.  
  
Zuckuss did so. The room in which he found himself was round and of stone with a meditation couch in its center, like the one in which he had been tested in the Great Temple, but there the similarity ended. Instead of several cluttered shelves full of miscellaneous artifacts there was a single shelf of ancient tomes organized in neat rows, and instead of a single white lamp there were several windows of cool, dusky blue that reflected the warmer green-gold glow of several incense lamps. Backlit by this dim glow stood three high-ranking Findsmen in formal attire, awaiting him. Two of them Zuckuss remembered from his initiation ceremonies the year before: the large, blocky Okkfel Taagu, who had taught his brother Gorruss, and Volokoss Ratokk, with his profound stoop, his gray-green chitin, and his friendly silver eyes. The third, a female about his mother’s age with copper-colored eyes, Zuckuss recognized as Luyen Dzi’kel, the dean of the Lhúdanswani temple. Although he had seen her before in the halls and chapels of the temple, he had never been formally introduced to her, and indeed, it was surprising to see her come to examine a new apprentice like himself.  
  
“Zuckuss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd offers most humble greeting to Your Mystical Honors,” he said as he bowed to the three, pressing his right hand to his chest and cupping his left hand below it.  
  
Luyen waved her hand in a circle over Zuckuss’s head and placed the other in the hand he had cupped to his chest. “Good morning and blessing to you, apprentice Findsman Zuckuss,” she intoned. “Volokoss, please begin.”  
  
Volokoss placed both hands on the head of the kneeling apprentice and began to chant softly:  
  
“O most Sacred Visionary Mists, glory of Gand, enthroned above the brooding fogs and swirling within the stars: Bless and guide those who here begin the sacred work of seeking You in vortices of fog, wind, and flame . . .”  
  
“ . . . and in the confines of chitin, keratin, and flesh.” Zuckuss gave the customary response in a whisper.  
  
“Thus prays Ratokk . . .”  
  
“And the unworthy pupil, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd . . .”  
  
“And thus may it be Your sacred will,” they finished together.  
  
Then Volokoss stepped back and Okkfel took his place. He cleared his throat loudly, then began in a mumbled undertone:  
  
“O most Sacred Visionary Mists, glory of Gand: Deign to vouchsafe Your gentle guidance to this student as he progresses to the next stage of his study of Your most sacred—URGHHH!”  
  
Before Zuckuss could react, Okkfel’s large spiked fist made sudden contact with his chest armor, sending him flying into the wall.  
  
“Really, Okkfel!” exclaimed Volokoss, rushing to Zuckuss’s side and helping him to his feet. “Was that necessary?”  
  
“A Findsman must always be prepared to defend himself,” came the gruff reply. “He was not prepared.”  
  
“But cannot this sort of thing wait until the combat component?”  
  
“He was within his rights, Ratokk,” Luyen put in coolly, glaring at Volokoss. “Now position yourself, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, and begin your Stillness of the Fog.”  
  
“Yes, Findslady Luyen.” His chest armor still smarting, Zuckuss sat on the round meditation couch in the middle of the room and arranged his robes about his knees. The ancient calming ritual called Stillness of the Fog was the first thing he had learned in the Lhúdanswani temple. It traditionally opened every teaching period, and Zuckuss was especially glad of the chance to perform it now after Okkfel’s outburst: it was useful not only in calming and opening the mind but also in easing physical discomfort.  
  
He closed his eyes, folded his hands in his lap, and began to breathe deeply, inhaling the sweet, musky scent of the incense lamps. Exerting gentle strength within and without, he was able to slow the progress of the Mists through him, little by little, until They stood still within his body and soul, hovering serenely like the glowing clouds of dawn outside the window. After several minutes all his tension and pain was gone, and calm reigned within him—along with glimmers of renewed resolution not to let Okkfel upset him. He exhaled a long, soft hiss and opened his eyes.  
  
“Zuckuss is ready, Your Mystical Honors.”  
  
As if to ascertain his readiness for herself, Luyen moved a hand slowly over Zuckuss’s head, then closed her eyes for a moment. “Very good, Apprentice Zuckuss,” she said as she opened them. “And now, Ritual of Discernment. Volokoss, please begin.”  
  
She handed Volokoss a small datapad. He switched it on and took a moment to read it. The muffled clacks of combined surprise and perplexity that he gave while doing so were not lost on Zuckuss.  
  
“Ah, yes. This will be . . . an interesting challenge for the youth. ”  
  
After gesturing for the young Gand to reposition himself for meditation and close his eyes, Volokoss began to chant something in a sort, warm, lyrical voice. Although he did not understand Volokoss’s words, Zuckuss recognized them as the traditional preliminaries to the Ritual of Discernment, in the ancient language of the Book of Light. At last, looking again at the datapad, Volokoss intoned in vernacular h’zav’Gand the question on which his pupil was to reflect:  
  
“To the Findsman thrown across endless leagues of stars to a mistless world, to a small Gand all alone beneath a poisonous sky, how can intuition come? For he cannot contain the Mists in his pouches, nor load them into his weapons, nor distill them into his phials.”  
  
As was customary, Zuckuss began repeating the question to himself in monotone chant: “‘To the Findsman thrown across endless leagues of stars . . .’ Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd humbly begs the pardon of Your Mystical Honors, but how can he hope to answer that with only one Ritual of Discernment? It is not a fair question.”  
  
Okkfel lunged close to him, his knobbly mouthparts snapping open disapprovingly. “What makes you think it is proper for an apprentice to speak so to his Masters, young one?”  
  
Zuckuss bristled a little at this remark, but he swallowed the feeling and turned his eyes contritely downward.  
  
“Gand apologizes most humbly, Findsmaster Okkfel,” he said. “Gand meant no disrespect. It only seems such an . . . unusual question for a Ritual of Discernment.”  
  
“The youth is not amiss in making such an observation.” It was Volokoss who spoke, looking at Luyen. “It is indeed somewhat extraordinary, and Volokoss would wager that few of the apprentices in this temple have been asked such things in their meditative exercises thus far.”  
  
Luyen turned to him. “The council would never present any student with a Discernment ritual beyond his ability,” she responded impassively. “Apprentice Zuckuss’s prodigious talent is well known to everyone in this temple. Why should either the council or this _ruetsavii-tí’kaa_ waste his time with ordinary riddles when it he is both worthy and capable of intuiting things that are real and true?”  
  
Zuckuss shuddered. _Real and true_? Was it _real and true_ that he would someday have to leave the Mists of Gand behind? Would he someday have to struggle with the problem of bringing Them with him far away from his beautiful homeworld? The glinting gaze of all three Masters was still fixed on him; he had no doubt they could sense his apprehension. Yet all he said was, “Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd understands, Your Mystical Honors.”  
  
Again he closed his eyes again and began to breathe deeply in and out, readying himself for the gentle inbreathing of the Mists. Possible meanings and interpretations and steps toward answers began to swim before him, around him, through him. He felt himself reaching out with his hand in attempt to catch these elusive possibilities lest they slithered beyond his reach . . .  
  
“Now just wait.” Zuckuss’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Okkfel’s snarling accents. “Okkfel never thought he would see a son of Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd writhing and reeling like a drunken Krúvanswani shaman. And straighten yourself.” In a single motion he straightened Zuckuss’s back as if it were a bent piece of metal. “You are a Findsman, not a _gryckle_ -hen sitting on its eggs.”  
  
Again Zuckuss bristled inwardly, and again he stifled the feeling. “Apologies, Master Findsman Okkfel.”  
  
“Okkfel is harsh, but he is right,” put in Volokoss as he too, much more gently, began to adjust Zuckuss’s shoulders, head, and back. “In Stillness of the Fog a more relaxed posture is permitted and even encouraged. But for all other meditations the Lhúdanswani Findsman must maintain perfect alignment, with shoulders straight, head raised, and eyes straight ahead.” He made a few final adjustments. “There, better already. How like his father he looks now!”  
  
Again Zuckuss inhaled, and again he exhaled, trying to regain the correct rhythm of meditative breathing associated with the Ritual of Discernment, but it was difficult to do so while also focusing on his posture. No sooner would his breathing fall into place than he would feel hands adjusting him—sometimes gently, sometimes roughly, but always in such a way as to break his concentration. It took several minutes before the swirling possibilities made themselves visible and sensible once again, and this time he took care to reach out to them only with his mind. Through it all he repeated the question to himself again and again in slurred mystical murmuring.  
  
“ . . . to a small Gand all alone . . . There it is, Your Mystical Honors,” he said at last, his eyes snapping open. “He is a small _Gand._ ”  
  
“Well, of course, dear son,” answered Volokoss in a half-peremptory tone. “You are just repeating the words of the question now.”  
  
Zuckuss’s mouthparts clacked hesitantly open and closed. “Pardon Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s awkwardness,” he said. “He meant to say that . . . just as Gand-the-world is enfolded by the Mists, so also is Gand-the-creature, wherever he is. Even if one were to uproot the homeworld of Gand, wrest it from its path around Te’el-Viire-Gand, and move it into orbit around Alzoc or Sluis or Zhar . . . would not its Mists go with it? They are bound to it; they are part of it just as the water and ammonia and soil are. Where Gand goes, so must They.” He paused and swallowed. “And where _any_ Gand goes, so must They. That is why the homeworld and the race have a common name.”  
  
There was silence as all three Masters gazed on Zuckuss with scrutinizing faceted eyes. Okkfel gave a few grunts. Finally Luyen spoke.  
  
“Very well done, apprentice Zuckuss,” she said, clicking her middle mandibles cheerfully. “Of course, there are infinite possible answers swirling endlessly in the Mists. And there are many reasons for the common name of homeworld and race, which you shall learn in your continued studies. But the answer you have given is more than apt, and it shows that your understanding of these mystical matters is far beyond what is typical for your age.” She paused, then continued more quietly, with a slight waver in her voice: “May that understanding not fail you when your own turn comes.”  
  
 _When your own turn comes . . ._ _When,_ and not _if._ How certain she seemed . . . Had the Mists shown her something they had not yet shown him . . . ?  
  
“And now, Volokoss, the list, if you please.” These words from Luyen, once again in clear, commanding tones of authority, reminded Zuckuss that now was not the time for him to ask about such things.  
  
Volokoss bowed slightly to the Lhúdanswani dean, then took a datapad from an inner pocket of his robes and handed it to Zuckuss. He activated it and perused it. Its viewscreen showed a long and varied list that included not only new-model Merr-Sonn GRS-1 shockstun cartridges, a miniature portrait of Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, and a set of ten vibroblades each engraved with a different chapter from the Book of Light, but also the only three female servants of the temple, the only two Non-Breather apprentices studying in the temple, and the droid that served as Luyen’s secretary. It was a hunting exercise Zuckuss knew well: he must use his skills in meditation and tracking to hunt within the temple complex for everything and everyone on the list, and bring them before his three examiners.  
  
“Is everything clear?” asked Luyen.  
  
“Yes, Your Mystical Honor.”  
  
“Good,” she replied as the younger Gand shifted into meditative position once again. “May the Sacred Visionary Mists guide you to success in your hunt, Apprentice Zuckuss.”  
  
Volokoss hurried over and made a small adjustment to Zuckuss’s posture. “And for the love of the Holy Madman,” he interjected, “keep your shoulders straight!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virtually all the Gand terms and Findsman techniques mentioned in this and future chapters (Book of Light, _gryckle_ -hen, h’zav’Gand, Ritual of Discernment, Stillness of the Fog, and Te’el-Viire-Gand, etc.) are my own creation and are described in my [Glossary of Gand Findsman Techniques, Rituals, and Technology](http://boards.theforce.net/posts/51965693) in the Fanon Thread at JCF Fanfic. The sect names Lhúdanswani and Krúvanswani are likewise my own invention. _Ruetsavii-tí’kaa_ is based on the canon term [_ruetsavii_](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Ruetsavii) (Gand ritual examiners) and essentially just means a group of three such examiners.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
Two hours passed. Zuckuss had by now scanned over the entire complex of the Lhúdanswani temple in the eye of his intuition and had determined at least the approximate location of each of the objects and beings listed. His rhythmic breathing provided fuel for the vision, keeping the colors clear and the outlines sharp. Now it was just a matter of committing it all to memory so that he could go forth to retrieve his quarry and bring it before the three Masters.  
  
But he was finding it difficult to do so. He was not sure why; this kind of hunting exercise had never been hard for him before, not even when it involved hunting for his fellow apprentices or temple servants or any other being that could move from place to place. Part of it, of course, was this business with his posture; he was loath to incur Okkfel’s wrath any more than absolutely necessary. But he knew that was not all. Luyen’s mysterious words were haunting him, eroding his concentration. _When your own turn comes_ , she had said—his own turn to leave his homeworld, finally and inevitably. When, and how, and why? Curiosity ate away at him, even as he struggled to channel his intuitive energy toward the hunt at hand. And now that the mystical imprints of the hunted objects glimmered before him, he felt he could no longer resist it; it was growing, creeping across his mental view of the temple like a dank evening fog . . . then suddenly spinning up into a whirling, rushing darkness that enveloped the whole of Gand, dispersing her sacred Mists and scattering her Findsmen like frightened _gryckle_ -chicks throughout the galaxy . . .  
  
“But if the time of the Uncanny One really is at hand—”  
  
Zuckuss felt himself speaking these words aloud but stopped short, realizing suddenly that the voice issuing from his throat was somehow not his own. Was it was his father’s? Volokoss’s? Okkfel’s? Or was it the voice of some long-dead Findsman of yore? Of Trynfor himself . . . ?  
  
Suddenly pair of glowing golden orbs—were they eyes?—flashed before him, momentarily blinding out his mental image of the temple before dying away just as suddenly. And then a voice, this time close and familiar:  
  
“So it _is_ true!”  
  
He became aware of a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes twitched open almost against his will. One of his examiners had just performed the technique called Hand of Rescue, used to stop the meditation of another—and Zuckuss noticed, to his great consternation and disgust, that it had been Okkfel.  
  
“What was the meaning of that, Apprentice Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd?”  
  
“Apologies, Findsmaster Okkfel . . .” came the quiet response. “It was nothing . . . just a distraction . . .”  
  
“Then banish it from your mind and begin again.”  
  
“Yes, Findsmaster Okkfel.”  
  
“A true Lhúdanswani Findsman must let nothing distract him. Nor does he waste his energy on needless chatter. Understood?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Findsmaster Okkfel . . .” Zuckuss bit his tongue with his inmost mandibles, wishing he could banish his vexation with another Stillness of the Fog.  
  
“Now be gentle on the youth, Okkfel,” put in Volokoss. “Is it any surprise that the coming of the Uncanny One is of concern to him, being as he is of the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd?”  
  
“Immaterial,” retorted Okkfel, his exoskeleton making an unpleasant crunch as he crossed his arms tightly before him. “He was not asked to hunt for the Uncanny One. And he should know”—here he glared sidelong at Zuckuss—“that _no one_ can hunt for the Uncanny One. The Uncanny One is the _zaviir_ beyond all _zavr’aii._ Do not tell me Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd did not teach his son _that._ ”  
  
This reminder of his father’s coldness was too much for Zuckuss. His mandibles ground in anger as he jumped to his feet and struck Okkfel mightily in the thorax, sending him crashing backward into the corner of the bookcase. An incense lamp that had been sitting on one shelf fell to the floor, shattering instantly.  
  
“WHY—YOU—”  
  
Hoisting himself to his feet with an agility surprising for his bulk, Okkfel grabbed Zuckuss by the collar of his robe and struck him violently against the wall. Zuckuss shrieked in pain, not only at the blow but also at the painful electrical feedback shooting into him through Okkfel’s clenched hands.  
  
“ENOUGH!” Luyen interposed herself, freeing Zuckuss from Okkfel’s grip. “Taagu, let the youth go! And Apprentice Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, what in the name of the Holy Madman did you mean by such behavior toward a Findsmaster?”  
  
Seized by sincere shame at this admonition from the dean of the temple, Zuckuss shrunk back and made a deep obeisance.  
  
“Gand apologizes most humbly, Findslady Luyen . . . Findsmaster Okkfel . . . Gand behaved shamefully . . .”  
  
Volokoss was soon at the young apprentice’s side, helping him up from his slumped position against the wall. “Now, your feelings are only natural, young one, but—”  
  
“No need, Volokoss, Findslady Luyen.” Okkfel’s large, rough mandibles clacked as he straightened his robes. “It gladdens Okkfel to see that the youth is not completely devoid of spirit. He has the makings of a fine warrior. Taagu should not have underestimated him.”  
  
_Befoggèd right you shouldn’t have,_ thought Zuckuss to himself, smoothing his own robes and returning to the meditation couch.  
  
Luyen stood silent in thought for a moment, then gave a little click.  
  
“Well, it certainly does take no small amount of spirit to stand up to Luyen’s esteemed colleague here. You are forgiven this time, Apprentice Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd. But not a second time.”  
  
Zuckuss bowed slightly. “Understood, Findslady Luyen.”  
  
“Now, breathe for a moment . . . return to balance . . .” He obeyed, closing his eyes as he inhaled and exhaled three times. “There. Are you ready now to continue your hunt?”  
  
Zuckuss bowed slightly. “Yes, Findslady Luyen.”  
  
She raised her hand in a gesture of combined command and blessing. “Then go forth and hunt, in the name of the Sacred Visionary Mists.”

* * *

The rest of the hunting exercise went smoothly. Even more so than Zuckuss had expected; it was as though lashing out at Okkfel had banished his anxiety and given him a new measure of intuitive clarity. With the luminous mental map of the temple before him in his mind’s eye, he searched efficiently and effortlessly through the halls and chambers of the Lhúdanswani temple. Upon finding each required object, he placed it carefully in one of the inner pockets of his robes, taking care not to place the more fragile objects with anything that might damage them; the smallest scratch on any of them would be grounds for disciplinary action, invalidating the hunt. The six beings he had been tasked with hunting—the three servants, the two apprentices, and the secretary droid—accompanied him wordlessly and without resistance, for every denizen of the Lhúdanswani temple was well accustomed to this kind of exercise. Only the droid, a slightly out-of-date modified courier model, emitted the occasional querulous bleep as it was led through the glowing hallways. Not more than two hours had elapsed before he and those for whom he had hunted stood before the door to the examination room.  
  
Zuckuss tapped discreetly on the door with his claw, then waited a moment. But there was no answer. He waited again, then tapped again; again there was no answer. Then he put his hand to the door handle and turned it as quietly as he could.  
  
All three of the senior Findsmen were seated in an attitude of deep meditation, with their eyes closed and their hands folded in their laps. Each was a model of absolutely correct Lhúdanswani posture. The room was completely quiet except for occasional minute hisses of breath.  
  
Zuckuss stood for several moments looking at them, then glanced back at his mock captives, then back at his meditating examiners. He was not sure how to proceed. He did not want to disturb his three examiners in their meditation, yet he also felt that he should do something and not just stand there like a _gak-graak_ in the salt flats of Rhai’úthaa (as, he noted to himself with some amusement, Findsmaster Okkfel might say). At last, he decided to pass the time by removing the found objects from his pockets one by one and placing them as quietly as he could on various pieces of furniture around the room. He made a careful heap of the shockstun cartridges on a low table; he laid the matching vibroblades side by side, in order of size, on one shelf of the bookcase. All the while his mock captives stood quietly behind him. Some gazed in awe at the stately, motionless forms of the three meditating Findsmasters; others glanced around, taking in the room; yet others shuffled slightly in mild impatience, even as they maintained the requisite uncomplaining silence.  
  
At last Zuckuss reached into the inner breast pocket of his cloak to retrieve the miniature portrait of his ancestor, Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd . . .  
  
_—He is undisciplined and his technique is slipshod. Better should be expected of the son of the Guardian._  
  
Zuckuss looked up suddenly, his hand still on the small, framed shellackoid oval. It was as though words, phrases, thoughts, had materialized soundlessly but unambiguously within his mind. Yet he thought he knew what voice would have gone with those words had they been spoken aloud . . .  
  
_—But you must admit, his courage is admirable._ And again; these words would have belonged to a different, but equally familiar, voice. _And his natural talents are great. His technique will refine itself naturally with time._  
  
“Is something amiss with Your Mystical Honor?”  
  
Zuckuss jumped at the sound of a real, audible voice. It belonged to one of the three female temple servants, one with purple-gray chitin who assisted in the healing wing, and she had run to his side.  
  
“Yes . . . that is, no . . .” Zuckuss noticed that he had withdrawn his hand from his pocket and placed it to his temple as if in response to pain; he put it down at once and drew back from the healing servant’s approach. “Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd is not impaired . . . it will pass…”  
  
Again the first silent interlocutor spoke.  
  
_—Talent without discipline is useless._ _He will need a strong hand to guide him on the correct path in his studies._  
  
_—No, no, it is gentler guidance that he needs. There is much that is troubling him deep within, and too hard a touch will only trouble him more._  
  
_—Those troubles will only impede him._ With these words Zuckuss felt a sudden twinge of cold. _He must uproot them from his soul if he is to become a true Findsman._  
  
_—Does he really? Nowhere in the sacred writings of Gand does it say that the Findsman must relinquish his natural emotions. Even the deepest fears and troubles can become a source of strength when channeled properly. And he will learn how._  
  
_—What is this, Ratokk?_ Zuckuss flinched as the cold sensation intensified, now feeling like a frosted dagger piercing his brain. _Have you become a soft Krúvanswani?_  
  
_—Peace, Taagu._ A third interlocutor now interposed, speaking words that would have resonated with the grave voice of the Lhúdanswani dean. _Do not speak of what you do not know._ _Both of you shall leave this to be discussed later, for the youth has returned._  
  
At these words the three Findsmasters opener their eyes, rose, and turned to face Zuckuss and his group of captives. Zuckuss immediately stood at attention and bowed to them in the customary manner, and the group behind him followed suit. Luyen first gestured to Volokoss and Okkfel, who began to sort systematically through the objects Zuckuss had left on the tables, ensuring that all of them were there and that none of them were damaged. Then Luyen approached the six mock captives, counted and inspected them as though they were troops, then proceeded to dismiss each of them except the secretary droid one by one with soft words and gestures of blessing. To the droid she simply whispered a few instructions before sending it away.  
  
Through it all Zuckuss stood still and watched, his gaze moving from Luyen to the captives and to Volokoss, Okkfel, and the found objects in turn. Had these three august Masters been able to sense him eavesdropping on their meditative deliberations? It was not as though he had meant too, after all . . . Their expressions—as staid and expressionless as ever—offered no clue. Yet there again, growing with each moment, seeming to creep from the very core of his eyes, was that same cold ache in his head. _Certainly they know. How could they not . . . ?_  
  
After a few minutes Luyen dismissed the last of the mock captives, the healing servant with the purple-gray chitin. The other two Findsmasters were still engaged in counting the objects placed on the shelf and table when once again Zuckuss felt the silent words obtruding on his consciousness, and with them the same pang of piercing cold:  
  
_—The Flygg shellackoid. Everything is here except the Flygg shellackoid._  
  
Zuckuss started at these words: had he really forgotten to retrieve one of the objects on the list? Failure to retrieve anything less then all of them would mean he had failed the test and would be banned from continuing his apprenticeship . . .  
  
Quickly he checked the four inner pockets of his cloak. There indeed, in one of the breast pockets, was the round, smooth outline of the miniature portrait, which he had forgotten to remove.  
  
Another soundless mental voice cut in. _Is it not on the shelf beside the vibroblades?_  
  
_—No. It is neither there nor on the table. He has obviously failed to find it._  
  
_—Are you absolutely certain?_ put in the third speaker. _Look again. It would be almost impossible for him not to find it._  
  
_—Okkfel assures both of you that it is not there. He has clearly not found it. Your precious Uncanny One has failed._  
  
The icy pain in Zuckuss’s head was now stronger than ever. He could no longer hold back. Straightening up, he strode over to Okkfel, drew the portrait from his pocket, and held it up before the senior Findsman’s face.  
  
“Begging your pardon, Findsmaster Okkfel.” He spoke firmly but calmly. “Zuckuss has _not_ failed.”  
  
Okkfel jumped, his mouthparts clacking open in surprise. He was speechless as he took the small oval portrait and stood looking at it, almost scrutinizing it, for a few moments, as if ensuring that it was the correct object. The other two Findsmasters watched, and Zuckuss noticed that neither of them could stifle a few clicks of amusement.  
  
“Well, befog this old Taagu, there it is,” he murmured at last, then turned hastily to the Lhúdanswani dean. “With your permission, Findslady Luyen, as was agreed upon . . .”  
  
Luyen made a gesture of approval with her hand, upon which Okkfel handed the portrait back to Zuckuss.  
  
“You should really keep this, young one. It is yours by right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term [_zaviir_](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zaviir-juna) was established in SW:TOR; the plural _zavr'aii_ was made up by me.


	3. Chapter 3

It was two hours past midnight in R’Kalýma. Still silver-gray mists hung ominously about the Lhúdanswani temple and its surrounding peaks. Four hours ago the signal-chimes had heralded the beginning of the evening rest period. All was dark in the temple except for a few points of light in the windows of the dormitory wing, where apprentices were engaged in the customary nighttime devotions and meditative exercises.  
  
Zuckuss was in his quarters as well, ostensibly similarly occupied. But his mind was filled less with meditative formulas and sacred texts than with his examination earlier that day. He remembered how Findslady Luyen had blessed and dismissed him, telling him that his assigned Findsmaster would call on him in his quarters first thing tomorrow—if, and only if, she was careful to stress,it were the will of the Mists that he advance in his studies. He remembered how he had bowed and responded with deference, as was customary. But then, as now, he had been filled with secret pride in his performance and his abilities. All doubt in his mind had been vanquished: he was indeed going to advance in his studies, and it was indeed the will of the Mists that he should do so. Best of all—and he could not stifle a few clacks of pride to think of it—he had also proven as much, in no uncertain terms, to that tiresome old overkreetle of a Findsmaster, Okkfel Taagu. _That will teach him to underestimate the Uncanny One!_ For of that too he was now certain.  
  
Having closed his devotions with one final Stillness of the Fog, Zuckuss removed his outer robes and relaxed onto his side on the round couch in his meditation alcove. He drew the miniature portrait of his ancestor from his inner pocket and studied it. Just small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, it showed a serious-looking Gand male with silver eyes, clad in dark brown Findsman’s field robes of an old-fashioned style. Above and to the right of Zukfel’s image was the family emblem of the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd: the golden orb crossed by the dagger and the toothed key, and grasped by the clawed hand. Everything—the folds of the clothing, the texture of the chitin, the individual facets of the eyes, the serrations of the key and dagger—was rendered in minute, delicate detail.  
  
For some time Zuckuss simply lay there contemplating the tiny artwork. As he studied it, marveling at its meticulous workmanship, he became struck by the strong similarity between the portrait’s features and his own. The renowned Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, closest friend of the legendary Trynfor the Mad, looked like nothing so much as an older version of himself—or perhaps a younger version of his father, which was essentially the same thing. Almost desperately he scanned the portrait for any small differences between this ancestor and the living Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd males. There were a few: a rougher crenellation pattern on the forehead and a slightly less angular contour to the outer mandibles. But there was no doubting that the eyes were his; they were almost identical in shape and shade to his own and those of his father. They seemed to be studying him as closely as he was studying them.  
  
“So you too, venerable ancestor Zukfel, are to this Gand a _ruetsa’iiv_ and examiner . . . ?”  
  
He lay there gazing on the tiny image for several more minutes, perhaps hours, until sleep overtook him.

* * *

Zuckuss awoke to the ruddy glimmers of dawn and the rapping of a claw on his door. A thrill ran through him as he jumped to his feet, smoothed his clothing, and threw on his outer robe: this no doubt was the Findsmaster appointed to him by the dean and the temple council, who would be his mentor and guide for the remainder of his apprenticeship. He almost hoped it was Okkfel, if only so he would have other opportunities to assert himself. Part of him imagined the bulky, irascible Findsmaster bowing his head in contrition, demoting himself to a lowly Taagu while expressing his sincere regret at having underestimated the son of Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.  
  
“Please enter.”  
  
The door opened to reveal the stooped form of Volokoss Ratokk, clad in full field gear with harness and armor.  
  
“Greetings, Apprentice Findsman Zuckuss, in the name of the Sacred Visionary Mists,” he began. “And felicitations as well. Your _ruetsavii-tí’kaa_ and the council of Findsmasters were most impressed with your performance on . . . Why are you standing there looking as though you have been hit with a stun bolt, young one?”  
  
Zuckuss realized suddenly that he had forgotten to offer Volokoss any of the traditional gestures of greeting or deference, and he bowed his head to receive the senior Findsman’s blessing. “Apologies, Findsmaster Volokoss,” he replied in a murmur. “It was for . . . no good reason.”  
  
“Yes, Volokoss was fairly certain of that,” said the elder Findsman with a good-natured click, waving a hand over Zuckuss’s head in blessing. “But for now, quickly, put on your field gear and come. You and Volokoss must go.”  
  
Zuckuss obeyed, and only minutes later he and his master were sitting side by side in the cockpit of one of the temple’s airspeeders, swooping deftly above the colorful, swirling clouds that separated one pocket colony from another.

* * *

A little over an hour later, Zuckuss found himself in the center of a busy marketplace, clad in the field gear of an apprentice Findsman: heavy outer robes, a _filg_ -leather supply belt, and light armor strapped around his shins and wrists. He was on the central market grounds of the pocket colony of N’xid. This was his first time there, but he knew from his studies that it was one of the smallest and poorest of Gand’s pocket colonies, with a particularly high proportion of nameless citizens. Indeed, even without the Ritual of Wayseeking he could tell that this marketplace was much smaller and less lavish than the great marketplace he remembered from his home colony of Rhaguin. Only a few rather dingy and faded guild banners dared twirl their way up into the foggy, silver-gray sky; the booths were small and modestly outfitted; and the citizens wore rough, simple clothing that was all of the same neutral-colored, undyed material—a sign of low self-reference status in certain colonies, as Zuckuss remembered from his readings. Occasionally he would see someone with a single colored scarf, sash, or shawl, which he knew must indicate a name, but the dark brown of his own field robe was the only other color that stood out at all.  
  
Volokoss had left him just moments ago, and there was not a single other Findsman in sight. The Findsmaster had explained on the flight over that they were coming to N’xid on patrol duty—an assignment, he had hastened to mention, that was not typical for an apprentice of Zuckuss’s level, but one that the temple council felt he deserved in light of his exceptional abilities. Shortly after docking and disembarking, Volokoss had proceeded to give his student very specific instructions on how to carry out his patrol duty. First he was to acquaint himself with the layout of the southern half of the market grounds by performing a first-level Ritual of Wayseeking (which itself would take at least half an hour). Once that had been completed he would begin his patrol, keeping a close watch on the dealings and interactions among the citizenry but never intervening unless the direct safety of beings or property was openly threatened. Finally, in three hours, he was to rendezvous with his master at the main gate of the marketplace and give a full report. It all seemed straightforward enough: what disorder could possibly arise in such a backrocket colony and among such an undistinguished citizenry? Perhaps that was the very reason the council considered it suitable for a first patrol mission.  
  
With these thoughts in his mind, Zuckuss stopped beside a fountain in the central market square and positioned himself for the Ritual of Wayseeking. Curious passers-by stared as he straightened his back and shoulders, then raised his hands upward before him with palms outward; he simply closed his eyes, shutting them out. The Ritual of Wayseeking was different from most of the other meditative disciplines he knew—not only because it could be performed standing up, but also because it involved sending out pulses of one’s own intuitive energy rather than receiving intuitive energy from the Mists. By sensing the combined reflections of those pulses off his physical surroundings, a Findsman could map those surroundings in his mind with a fair amount of accuracy. Of course, performing any meditative ritual in the midst of a busy marketplace was an added challenge, and he hoped that the white noise of the flowing water would aid his concentration.  
  
It did, at least for a while. After a quarter of an hour, he had mapped out most of the southern half of the marketplace. He was just about to begin on the northern half when he was jolted from his meditation by a forceful kick to the shin, followed by the startled protestation:  
  
“Gand beg Mystical Honor pardon! Gand thought Mystical Honor was _statue!_ ”  
  
The rather shabby-looking greenish-eyed youngster responsible had scampered off in near-panic before Zuckuss could offer any words of reassurance, and he had to begin the ritual again.  
  
When at last his mental map was complete, Zuckuss began his patrol. He walked slowly up and down the rows of booths, looking around him, returning the occasional nod or salute from the citizenry but never initiating such gestures himself—just as Volokoss had instructed him. So far there was not much for him to do in the way of keeping order. Both sellers and buyers were going about their business in a quiet and orderly fashion, with none of the complaining, arguing, or haggling that could occasionally be heard at the Rhaguin market.  
  
Presently he came to the northeastern corner of the marketplace. It was by far the dingiest part of an already fairly dingy place. The booths here were shabby and run-down, and several were empty; the stones of the street were coated in grime. But there were many children about, some darting in and out of booths, some hiding, some chasing each other, some mock-fighting with sticks or toy weapons—all clearly engaged in the customary mock Hunts. One group, which had just apprehended its mock captive, approached Zuckuss to ask him for his official ratification of the capture and his blessing. Doing nothing to disabuse them of the mistaken notion that he was anything more than an apprentice, Zuckuss quickly surveyed the quarry (who was stuffing his mandibles with some kind of juicy, pulpy blue fruit), then held his hands above the children’s heads and murmured a few assorted words of blessing. The children ran off, seemingly satisfied; Zuckuss stood for a moment watching them, clicking contentedly to himself as he remembered his own mock Hunts long ago.  
  
One child did not seem to be part of a mock Hunt: a girl, slight of build and with delicate features, who carried a large basket of fruit under her arm as she walked through the market. She was clad in the usual rough-hewn, neutral-colored tunic, with strands of purple foliage twined around her upper arms—no doubt a guild emblem of some kind, Zuckuss surmised, identifying her as a seller of produce. With her round golden eyes, she, too, seemed to be watching the mock-hunters. A passing citizen beckoned to her and wordlessly handed her a credit slip; in return she gave him an oblong red fruit from her basket.  
  
Some of the other children seemed to have noticed her as well, for one of them—a tall boy with black eyes, probably a few years older than she—pointed to her and gestured to his group of friends to approach her. She turned away quickly as she saw them, but the black-eyed boy jumped in front of her, cutting off her steps. Then he spoke four mocking, drawn-out syllables:  
  
“Vee-oo-RAAAHN-vee.”  
  
The golden-eyed girl closed her eyes and lowered her head as a chorus of derisive clacks erupted from the boy and his companions. Zuckuss slipped into a nearby booth and pretended to survey the wares, keeping the cornermost facets of his eyes trained on the group of children. He did not know what the boy had said to the girl—some local childish insult, he guessed—but he had a feeling his presence might come in handy for peacekeeping purposes, especially since no parents or other chaperones seemed to be about.  
  
The black-eyed boy spoke again, in sickly-sweet tones. “Won’t you let this Gand buy one of your blue _togu?_ ”  
  
The girl held out her basket. The boy grabbed a globular purple-blue fruit from it and threw it forcefully to the ground near her feet. Moist aquamarine pulp splattered on the cobblestones. He and his companions clicked and jeered as the girl bent down to pick it up, then looked it over intently, feeling it and the oozing pulp with both hands.  
  
Meanwhile, in the booth, Zuckuss fidgeted uneasily with a scoop in a large cloth sack of dried nutrient strips, wondering if he should intervene. But Volokoss’s instructions had been clear, and so far the only thing that had suffered physical harm was a _togu_ . . . He looked about in case any of the children’s parents had appeared. But none had, and the nearby shopkeepers seemed to be taking no interest. To them it was apparently just some children’s game.  
  
“So!” Both Zuckuss and the golden-eyed girl jumped at this sudden exclamation from the black-eyed boy. “Aren’t you going to tell this Gand’s fortune, like you promised?”  
  
“Gand already did.” The girl’s response was timid and barely audible, but she was now looking the boy squarely in the eye.  
  
“Well, has it happened yet?” The black-eyed boy leaned close to her, his mandibles splayed fully open. “No, it hasn’t. Perhaps the Sacred Visionary Mists saw fit to inform you that _this_ Gand’s father”—he rapped on his chest with one claw—“is Semfod Sylonn, governor of N’xid, and he has _never_ lost _any_ money on _any_ of his investments. _Ever._ ”  
  
“Not yet. But by sunset . . .” She gulped, as though close to sobs. “By sunset the market will crash. The Grenn-Mygra bubble will burst. And . . . and he will be without a single credit.”  
  
“You’re making that up, you little liar!”  
  
“No—Gand is not—”  
  
“You _are!_ You’re talking _nonsense!_ ”  
  
“But you asked—”  
  
“LIAR!” The black-eyed boy’s mandibles clattered with rage. He grabbed the girl by the collar of her tunic and gave her a violent shove backward into a large mud puddle. Her basket and all the fruit in it flew in all directions, scattering and splattering on the cobblestones. The boy’s friends rushed to stomp on any fruit that did not squash upon impact.  
  
This was Zuckuss’s cue to act. He dropped the scoopful of nutrient strips—only some of which, to the shopkeeper’s horror, ended up back in the sack—and ran between the black-eyed boy and his victim.  
  
“WHAT IN THE HOLY MADMAN’S NAME DO YOU MEAN BY SUCH BEHAVIOR?! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF! YOU—”  
  
He stopped short. The dust and grime from the cobblestones seemed to be rising into the air around the girl, who was now sitting upright, apparently oblivious to the slimy, brown-green mud soiling her clothes, and fixing the boy in her fiery golden gaze. Higher and faster the dust swirled, glowing silver like the mist in the sky. The black-eyed boy and his friends backed ever so slightly away; Zuckuss’s intuition tingled as he took a cautious step to the side.  
  
Then the girl struck the back of her hand full-force on the pavement. Just as she did, the swirling dusts gathered into a whirlwind that flew directly at the boy and his companions. They scattered in a volley of screams, oaths, and coughs.  
  
Just as quickly as it had arisen, the whirlwind vanished. And the girl collapsed into the muddy water.  
  
Zuckuss rushed to her side. She was exhausted but still conscious. “Are you all right, young one?” he asked, reaching his hand to her.  
  
With some difficulty she rolled out of the puddle and onto one side, blinking her nictitating membranes. Then her eyes flashed open as she gave a sudden start.  
  
“It’s . . . it’s you.”  
  
“Have you seen Zuckuss before?” Zuckuss could not help but clack in puzzlement. “You speak as if you recognize him, but he has never been to N’xid before today.”  
  
“Well . . .” She trailed off, turning her eyes away. “Gand could be wrong . . .”  
  
“No matter. Take Zuckuss’s hand.”  
  
She did so, and he helped her carefully to her feet. As she smoothed out her clothing and brushed off a few clumps of mud, he collected her basket and the damaged fruit from the ground. He could sense that she was watching him as he did so, that those bright golden eyes of hers were following his every move. Could she really have seen him before, somewhere, somehow? He had never before been to N’xid, and he could hardly imagine that any Gand child so young and so poor would ever have had the means or opportunity to go beyond her home colony. Perhaps she had simply confused him with someone else—but with whom?  
  
And that strange little whirlwind of dust from the street—just what was it that she had done? Volokoss had not yet taught him anything like that . . .  
  
As carefully and inconspicuously as he could, he tucked a credit slip from his inner pocket into the girl’s basket before returning it to her.  
  
“And there. Zuckuss shall accompany you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My early beta and writing partner Beedo introduced me to [kreetles and overkreetles](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kreetle), and we figured they or related creatures might exist on an insect-dominated world like Gand.
> 
> The _togu_ is my own creation; the dried nutrient strips are my own creation riffing on an officially established Gand food item. For details, please see my [fanon post on Gand foodstuffs](http://boards.theforce.net/posts/52391911) at JCF Fanfic.
> 
> The word _ruetsa’iiv_ is my own singular of the official plural word _ruetsavii_.
> 
> The Ritual of Wayseeking is my own creation too, and should probably be added to my original Gand fanon post.
> 
> I originally named N'xid after [Skid Row](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skid_Row,_Los_Angeles).


	4. Chapter 4

Zuckuss and the golden-eyed girl walked together in silence through the market. They went out the east gate of the marketplace and down the cobbled streets of N’xid. They passed drab-looking tenements, sleepy shops, and even a small, run-down temple that looked as though it had seen no use since the days of Trynfor the Mad. The girl stopped at a transit shelter near the temple and Zuckuss stopped with her, taking the opportunity to get a closer look at the waifish creature he had rescued at the market.  
  
Or had he really? She, after all, was the one that had fended off the bully by raising that strange vortex of the street’s dirt and grime. She was a pretty child, with a dainty face, and her golden-brown chitin seemed to have a pinkish tinge. From the shape and position of her mandibles, palps, and antennae, it was clear that she was a member of the Breather subspecies, as Zuckuss was himself. And of course he had already noticed her golden eyes—a less common Gand eye color than most, but by no means unheard of (one of his family’s shoemakers back in Rhaguin had been golden-eyed).  
  
But he had not noticed before how patched and threadbare her clothing was, nor how the cloth bindings on her feet—she wore no proper shoes—were riddled with holes and tears. And he was just now realizing how truly small she was for her age—or at least for the age he had guessed when he had heard her exchange with the black-eyed boy. He wondered if her growth had been stunted somehow, how well fed she was at home. As they stood and waited, she took occasional nervous glances around, as if she feared the black-eyed boy or the other children might return.  
  
Presently a rudimentary, single-level, open-topped hoverbus—apparently driven by droid brain, since none of the few Gand citizens it carried seemed to be in the position of driver—stopped at the shelter. The girl began to board, and Zuckuss followed her, dropping a credit slip in the fare acceptance unit to cover both of them. They sat together on the passenger bench along the rear wall of the vehicle.  
  
“Now if you will pardon Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd,” Zuckuss said as he rummaged in his pocket, “he must very quickly send a message to his Findsmaster.”  
  
He took out his comlink, set it to Volokoss’s frequency, and tapped out a verbal message with the thumb-claws of both hands:  
  
HAS INQUIRY FOR YOU FMR VOLOKOSS  
  
Two points of light flashed alternately on the screen of the comlink, indicating that Volokoss was preparing a response. After a few seconds it appeared:  
  
YES PROCEED  
  
Zuckuss’s claws tapped busily on the comlink interface. AT MARKET SAW CHILD MAKE DUST FLY FROM STREET AT OTHER CHILD  
  
CHILDREN THROWING DIRT NOTHING NEW APPR ZUCKUSS came Volokoss’s reply.  
  
NO WAS WITHOUT HANDS, countered his apprentice.  
  
HOW IN MISTS NAME POSSIBLE TO THROW DIRT WITHOUT HANDS  
  
Zuckuss’s mouthparts clattered in mild frustration. MADE IT RISE FROM STREET AND FLY AT OTHER CHILD IS THAT A TECHNIQUE FAMILIAR TO YOU CURIOUS TO KNOW  
  
The two points of light flashed again, this time for several seconds: five, ten . . . Volokoss apparently had much to say about this, though he was taking his dear time to say it. Meanwhile, Zuckuss could feel the girl’s eyes on him. Perhaps she had never seen a communications device like his before.  
  
The screen went suddenly blank. Zuckuss clacked in frustration. FMR VOLOKOSS IF NG’XVI-TA’AL-LHÚD HAS ASKED WHAT IS NOT FOR HIM TO  
  
He was cut short by his teacher’s response. ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY SURE WAS CHILD  
  
“It really _is_ you.”  
  
The girl had spoken. Zuckuss pocketed his comlink and turned to her. She was eyeing him intently, gripping her basket tightly in front of her. He noticed for the first time that the chitin of her knuckles was brutally scratched where she had struck the pavement.  
  
“May Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd ask what you mean by that, young one?”  
  
“It _is_ you,” she repeated. “You are the one Viurraanvi saw.”  
  
 _Viurraanvi._ That was the strange word that the black-eyed boy had uttered—and it dawned on Zuckuss that it was none other than this child’s name. Yes, this timid, raggedy youngling had a name. And that she was using it meant she was sure of herself. Indeed, now that he looked at her again, Zuckuss noticed a tiny edge of green material peeking up from the collar of her tunic—apparently a scarf or shawl that she (or someone else?) had pushed all the way inside her tunic to hide from view.  
  
Of course, Zuckuss thought to himself, he too had acquired the first of his two names around the same age, so it was not unheard of . . .  
  
“All right, then. When did you see Zuckuss, and where?”  
  
“Well, Gand was . . . sitting by herself and thinking, and then . . . ”  
  
“And then what?”  
  
“And then . . . Viurraanvi saw you. Or . . . at least it looked like you.”  
  
Zuckuss pondered a moment. What she said reminded him of the times he used to pretend to meditate as a child, and of the flashes of rudimentary intuition that occasionally came upon him even in those days—as in that one mock hunt long ago, when it dawned on him that his fugitive friend might be hiding in full view in the marketplace. He had been fortunate enough to be surrounded by parents and elders well-versed in the Sacred Trade, and they had immediately recognized those tiny flashes of insight as a sign of mystical talent. And now here he was, just over a year later, recognizing something similar in this lonely girl from the market.  
  
But it occurred to him that he had not been the first to do so. She had already had one name bestowed, and the _ruetsavii-tí’kaa_ that had done so—for only full-ranking _ruetsavii_ had the authority to bestow names—certainly would have noticed if she possessed any of the talent of the Mists.  
  
The comlink in his pocket pulsed. “Apologies, young one. Just a moment.”  
  
He withdrew it quickly and opened it. A new message from Volokoss shone on the screen.  
  
PLEASE ANSWER HIS QUESTION APPR ZUCKUSS  
  
Zuckuss tapped furiously, the girl watching him as he did so. SINCEREST APOLOGIES FMR VOLOKOSS YES WAS CHILD VERY SMALL POSSIBLY STUNTED HARD TO TELL  
  
Again the two blinking lights appeared, but Zuckuss thrust the device back into his pocket. His tiresome old Findsmaster could wait—for now he was determined to find out all he could from the mysterious child sitting beside him.  
  
“Do you often . . . sit and think to yourself?” he asked her.  
  
“Just . . . sometimes.”  
  
“And do you usually see things when you do?”  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
“And if Zuckuss may ask . . . back at the market, when you . . . made the dust fly at that boy who was—”  
  
The girl’s mandibles popped open in horror. “What does Your Mystical Honor mean?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing, young one . . . just that he has never seen anyone do that before, and was wondering—”  
  
“Please, please, Your Mystical Honor—” She erupted in a violent fit of trembling. “Gand does not know—it’s never happened before—do not be angry—”  
  
“There, now, young one! Zuckuss is not angry. Why in the name of the Mists do you think Zuckuss would be—”  
  
Once again the comlink pulsed. Zuckuss reflexively muttered a curse under his breath, which he immediately followed with “Please pardon Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.”  
  
VERY STRANGE INDEED read the new message from his Findsmaster. VOLOKOSS WILL HAVE TO CONFIRM UPON RETURN TO TEMPLE BUT SOUNDS LIKE RHAK’ZEL DUST VORTEX ATTACK  
  
Zuckuss racked his brains. He had never heard of any such technique, though he was of course still in the early stages in his apprenticeship. He was on the point of tapping out a message to Volokoss to ask what a Rhak’zel dust vortex attack was when the hoverbus slowed to approach a stop. The girl stood up to disembark. Zuckuss pocketed his comlink and followed her.  
  
They had arrived at what seemed to be the outskirts of town—or even, as Zuckuss surmised from the rolling gray-green mists overhead, the very edge of the colony of N’xid. In any case, they had left the cobblestones and tenements of the city center far behind. The only buildings here were scattered cottages. A vast, flat expanse of windswept grassland extended into the distance; it and the turbid sky seemed to dissolve one into another.  
  
After a short walk Zuckuss and the golden-eyed girl arrived at a cottage adjoined by sizable walled garden much larger than itself. The girl approached the door and knocked.  
  
“Is this your home?” asked Zuckuss.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Do you not have a key?”  
  
“No,” came the quiet reply. “But Mother should be home by now.”  
  
And indeed, seconds later, a tall, sturdy Gand female opened the door. She wore a heavy work tunic and patched fatigues of the same neutral-colored material worn by all the citizens of N’xid, though stained in several places with the brown-green of soil and the dark purple of plant matter. Her arms were twined with the same purple leaves that her daughter was wearing, and a purple shawl covered her shoulders. As the golden-eyed youngster ran up to her, she responded with a hasty embrace. Then she pushed the girl from her to scrutinize her soiled clothing through cold, silver-white compound eyes.  
  
“By the Holy Madman’s boot buckles, young one! How did you get your tunic so dirty?” She took the girl’s basket and riffled through it, a grimace of disgust contorting her mouthparts. “And your fruit is all ruined. What is this all about?”  
  
“Greetings, esteemed citizen . . . if Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd may be so bold . . .”  
  
The mother shot a glance at the young Findsman. “Is there a way Lekli may be of service to Your Mystical Honor?”  
  
“Well, if you please, esteemed Citizen Lekli . . .” He began telling her what had happened at the market, how the black-eyed boy (“he said his father’s name was Sy . . . Syonn—” “Sylonn,” the mother interrupted) had taunted young Viurraanvi, and what she had said to him. He had just described how the boy had pushed her into the puddle and thrown her fruit on the ground when the mother interjected.  
  
“Is this true, young one?” She turned to her daughter, who had been standing the whole time with her eyes downturned, fidgeting with her hands.  
  
“Yes, Mother.”  
  
“Mother and Father have told you before that the other children don’t want to hear your mystical nonsense, little Gand. Especially not the governor’s son.”  
  
“But, Mother, he asked—”  
  
“This is why you have no friends.” She turned her gaze to Zuckuss again. “Is there anything else Your Mystical Honor wished to say?”  
  
“Yes, if you please, Citizen Lekli. Zuckuss was about to intervene when your daughter did something that . . . that Zuckuss has never seen before.”  
  
“And what was that?”  
  
“Well, it was a . . . a . . .” He paused for a moment to remember what Volokoss had called it in his message. “A Rhak’zel dust vortex attack.”  
  
“Dust vortex . . . _what?!_ ” Lekli’s mouthparts snapped open in incredulity. “What is this, little Gand?!”  
  
“Mother, please—” The child was trembling again. “Gand doesn’t know what happened—she’s never done it before—”  
  
Zuckuss interposed as quickly as he could; he was near trembling himself. “Citizen Lekli, if you do not mind Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s saying so . . . if your daughter is correct about Governor Sylonn, and if she can do things like this . . . this dust vortex attack, then she is likely to possess the talent of the—”  
  
“Yes, Lekli knows.” Lekli’s mouthparts clacked querulously even as she spoke slowly and exaggeratedly, as if to a child. “Lekli has heard it all before. _Your Mystical Honor_ has come here like all the rest of them to tell Lekli that she should turn her child over to be trained in the Sacred Trade. Haven’t you?”  
  
“Citizen Lekli, if you please—”  
  
“Well, then. Lekli’s answer is the same as it was the last time one of your kind came to call. Lekli and her husband cannot afford to be without their daughter’s help in the garden and at the market. If you whisk her off to some temple to study mystical tricks, you will deprive them of the only livelihood they have on all of Gand. That is the answer Lekli has for Your Mystical—” She broke off and gave a hiss of exasperation. “Lekli doesn’t even know why she is calling you that. You’re clearly just an apprentice.”  
  
“Yes, Citizen Lekli.” Zuckuss bristled inwardly. How dare this unrefined Secular speak so of him, and indeed of all Findsmen! But he did his best to remain calm, for it was his duty on this patrol mission to keep the peace, not to escalate conflict. It was a shame that the girl’s mother was being so stubborn, but there was only so much he could do. After all, he _was_ just an apprentice.  
  
“And _you._ ” Lekli addressed her daughter again. “You and your silly fortune telling and . . . _dust attacks_ _._ It’s no wonder the other children won’t play with you. Go turn the compost heap.”  
  
“But, Mother, please—”  
  
“ _Now._ ”  
  
The daughter left the room, trembling all over. Zuckuss made a curt salute to the mistress of the house and turned to leave.  
  
“Farewell, citizen,” he said. “Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd has intruded long enough on your hospitality.”  
  
No sooner had he put his hand to the door handle than a heavyset male Gand in coveralls, mud-caked boots, and a dark blue coat burst into the room, almost bowling the young Findsman over. The newcomer’s arms were laden with a large flat of purple-leaved orchidaceous plants, which he deposited on a table with a loud thud before hunkering down on a bench. Lekli ran over to him.  
  
“Viurraanvi! What in the name of the Mists is the matter?”  
  
“Oh, Lekli, it’s pure madness in the Credit District right now,” her husband groaned as he shuffled out of his coat. “Traders and brokers running everywhere like madmen. Some old kreetle in a bright yellow coat plowed right into Viurraanvi and he nearly lost all the moonbows there.” He gestured to the flat of plants on the table. “Oh, holy Mists, what Viurraanvi wouldn’t give for a cup of _djelatha_ right now.”  
  
“There, now.” Lekli poured some steaming red liquid from a large round metal pot into a stoneware mug. “Tell Lekli what’s happened.”  
  
“The market has crashed.”  
  
Lekli started; the liquid in the mug sloshed. “Crashed?”  
  
“Yes, crashed. But what’s more . . .”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“It was the Grenn-Mygra bubble. And you know what they say about Governor Semfod Sylonn and Grenn-Mygra. If it’s true, he’s going to be poorer than you and Viurraanvi and young . . . Lekli, dearest, what’s wrong?”  
  
There was a crash as the mug shattered on the floor, then the frenzied sounds of sweeping and mopping, and then finally the words, “Nothing, Viurraanvi. Nothing at all.”

* * *

Zuckuss, meanwhile, who all this time had been secreted in a shadowy alcove by the door, clicked his inner mandibles and slipped outside. So the golden-eyed girl had been right about the black-eyed boy’s father and his investments. What her mother had called her “silly fortune telling” had in fact been—at least from what he could see—genuine intuition bestowed by the Mists. The market, Grenn-Mygra, Semfod Sylonn: all of those things, combined with the dust attack and the girl’s mysterious recognition of him, came together too perfectly to have been mere freak coincidence. Zuckuss hoped the stubborn mother had finally realized as much.  
  
But what about the daughter? Even if her prediction had not come to pass, would it still have been right for her to be punished with heavy chores? Zuckuss felt he should at least check on her. His pocket chronometer was telling him he would soon have to rendezvous with Volokoss back at the marketplace, but this wouldn’t take long. The garden wall was cracked and dilapidated; he scaled it easily.  
  
The garden was almost twice as large as the cottage. It was filled from wall to wall with flowering and fruit-bearing plants of all shapes, sizes, and growth habits. All of the foliage was some shade of purple, ranging from the reddish cordiform leaves of the _ighll_ to the slender purple-blue fronds of the pteridophytic _triik-rho._ Everything was planted in even, orderly rows but very closely together, with only barely enough room for a gardener to walk between; space was clearly at a premium. Of the three walls, one was lined with trees and shrubs bearing the various fruits Zuckuss had seen in the girl’s basket, and another with rickety wooden trellises so laden with tendrilly vines they threatened to collapse. Along part of the third stood a small glasshouse, filled past capacity with the same orchidaceous plants the girl’s father had been carrying. One small planter hung on a hook beside its entrance.  
  
The turbid green-gray mists hung close overhead. From his vantage point atop the wall Zuckuss reached up to them, channeling their energy through himself as he scanned the garden for the whereabouts of the young Viurraanvi. After a few moments he spotted her. She was in the corner of the garden farthest from him, between the tangle of vines and the back of the glasshouse. With a heavy and dangerous-looking spade that was almost twice as long as she was tall, she was struggling to dig through the contents of a heap of dirt, slime, and assorted plant debris. The tool was clearly too heavy for her, and her attempts to maneuver it often resulted in her dropping it (at least once on her own foot), falling backward, or both. Occasionally she would manage to scoop up a small quantity of compost, only to stagger and drop it back onto the heap where it had been.  
  
After a few minutes she put down the spade and went over to the planter that hung beside the glasshouse door, which seemed to contain nothing besides a few dry, lonely-looking gray-purple leaves. She placed her hands on the leaves, then stood still for several seconds with her eyes closed and her mandibles clenched—to what purpose Zuckuss could not tell. At last she opened her eyes and returned to her work on the compost. Again and again she tried to dig through it; again and again she would fall or lose her grip.  
  
Zuckuss’s antennae and palps bristled in disgust. How anyone could foist such arduous labor on such a frail child! It simply was not right, and he was resolved not to stand idly by. He leapt from the wall, ran over to the golden-eyed girl as quickly as he could without disturbing the carefully planted rows, and saluted her graciously, cupping his hands before him. She jumped backward, dropping the spade as her mouthparts popped open.  
  
“Why are you here?! Mother will see!”  
  
“Please pardon Zuckuss for startling you. He merely thought he might be able to offer you some assistance.” He gestured toward the spade. “If he may?”  
  
Before she could answer, Zuckuss hefted the spade and set to work. The mingled browns, purples, and red-greens of the compost flew busily about, splatting and squelching. At last, when the heap was thoroughly mixed and aerated, Zuckuss leaned the spade against the back wall of the glasshouse and bowed to the astonished girl with one hand cupped on his chest.  
  
“May the Mists show you the way, young Viurraanvi.”  
  
Leaving her standing there, he made his way briskly through the plants back toward the wall he had originally climbed down. As he clambered back up the wall, his eye happened to fall on the planter beside the glasshouse door. The leaves in it were now a fresh purple-blue, curling lushly upward.  
  
Zuckuss jumped down from the wall and ran as quickly as he could back to the hoverbus shelter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Rhak'zel dust vortex attack, Grenn-Mygra and its market bubble, and all the plants are my own creations—none of them are in my Gand fanon post yet, but they'll end up there eventually. :P Djelatha, however, is described in my [fanon post on Gand food and beverages](http://boards.theforce.net/posts/52391911).
> 
> The purple leaf color is something **Beedo** and I worked out long ago; we figured that a dominant leaf color other than green might be one effect of Gand's ammoniac atmosphere. That's also why I use the term "glasshouse" instead "greenhouse."


	5. Chapter 5

Silver-blue evening mists were beginning to roll in as Volokoss and Zuckuss walked together toward the spaceport of N'xid. The Findsmaster listened intently as his student told him all that had happened between the golden-eyed girl and the black-eyed boy at the marketplace. He continued by describing how he had escorted her home, his exchange with the mother, how the girl had been sent outside to dig the compost pile as punishment, and how the father had hurried in with the news of the market crash.  
  
“And is this all you have to report from your patrol, Apprentice Zuckuss?”  
  
“Yes, Findsmaster Volokoss. Zuckuss witnessed nothing else out of the ordinary in the northeastern quadrant of the marketplace.” It was perfectly true: he had deliberately omitted any mention of what the girl had done to the plant outside the glasshouse—for no other reason that he was not quite sure himself what she had done. And that, of course, had not been in any quadrant of the marketplace.  
  
Volokoss gave a clack with his middle mandibles that sounded half disappointed, half thoughtful. “Perhaps it is to be expected. N’xid is small and sparsely populated, and the warm season here will soon be coming to an end.”  
  
“But what about the child, Findsmaster Volokoss?”  
  
“What about her, Apprentice Zuckuss?”  
  
“Well, what do you make of her? So young, and yet she has a name . . .”  
  
“Oh, she is hardly the first child on Gand whose early intuitive talent has earned her a name.” He clicked cheerfully as he tapped his apprentice on the shoulder with one claw. “Certainly _you_ of all people know that.”  
  
“But this—what did you say it was—this Rhak’zel vortex . . .”  
  
“Rhak’zel dust vortex attack,” Volokoss corrected him. “Well, yes, _that_ is extremely unusual. It is not known to have been practiced by any Findsman sect for at least a thousand years.”  
  
“A thousand years!” All three layers of Zuckuss’s mandibles snapped open. “Then how in the Holy Madman’s name—”  
  
“In backrocket colonies like N’xid, ancient abilities like this one can sometimes be found lying dormant among the populace. That is how Bilocation was rediscovered, for example—which you will learn before your Second Evaluation. But if, as you say, _ruetsavii_ have already visited the family and if the parents have already refused to let her be apprenticed, then there is little to be done about it. Yes, Volokoss knows what you are going to say.” He leaned close to Zuckuss and clacked. “It is indeed a shame. But the girl’s parents have the final say in this matter, and you must respect their decision. Especially if, as you say, they are poor and require her help in their garden.”  
  
“But such heavy work for such a small child—Zuckuss saw it all himself!” And he told Volokoss about how he had watched the girl from the garden wall and come down to help her with her task.  
  
“Oh, what a good and noble heart you have, Apprentice Zuckuss!” Volokoss exclaimed, rapping his knuckles on his student’s shoulder. “Yes, it is indeed sad to see parents treating their children so. But if the girl’s parents saw fit to discipline her in that way, then that is their own affair. You should not have intervened.”  
  
“Not have intervened! But Findsmaster Volokoss, is it not the duty of a Findsman to—”  
  
“Not when it contradicts a superior authority,” Volokoss countered.  
  
“But these are _Seculars!_ Does not the authority of a Findsman—”  
  
“It does not,” Volokoss hissed. “They are still her parents, who bore her and raised her. Yes, you are a Findsman, but you are also merely some apprentice from a few colonies over who has never encountered them or their daughter before today. At the market you had been right to step in, since there had been none else with the authority to do so. But this child was working in the garden specifically on the instructions of her mother. Now, if she had suffered some kind of serious bodily harm in performing her work, you might have intervened in good conscience. But”—and here he tapped Zuckuss’s shoulder again—“Volokoss is not so sure that falling on one’s abdominal segment while lifting a garden spade qualifies as serious bodily harm.”  
  
“Yes, Findsmaster Volokoss. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd offers apologies.” Zuckuss’s inner mandibles ground together in frustration even as he uttered these contrite words. Did not the girl’s apparently stunted growth—no doubt brought on by years of similar thankless garden chores—also qualify as bodily harm? But another part of him could not dispute the wisdom of what his teacher had said. What right had a lowly apprentice Findsman like himself, who had presented himself unbidden at the gardener family’s door, to meddle in their affairs? Certainly his concern for their daughter’s well-being could not be greater than theirs. And yet how could he not be concerned for the strange, fragile child who, after all, had recognized _him_ from a vision in the Mists? These were the conflicting emotions that swirled in his mind like the evening fogs, which were growing thicker and thicker as Te’el-Viire-Gand crept closer to the horizon.  
  
But perhaps, he reflected, when finally the airspeeder carrying him and Volokoss pierced those mists—perhaps none of this mattered after all, for he was not likely to see any of them again.

* * *

Months passed as Zuckuss continued his training in the Lhúdanswani temple. His days, like those of the other fifteen or so apprentices training there, were filled with meditative exercises, study of ancient mystical texts and lore, martial arts training in small groups, and the morning and evening sanctuary devotions. Every few days the evening devotions concluded with a comprehensive inspection of all apprentices by the dean of the temple, the Findslady Luyen Dzi’kel. At night, like all the apprentices, Zuckuss occupied himself with his personal meditations and devotions, took a single light meal (but only if he felt actively hungry), and rested just long enough to regain his energy for the next day’s activities. At this rate, it would not be long—only a few more months—before he would be ready to undergo his First Evaluation in the Sacred Trade.  
  
From time to time this routine was interspersed with away missions of one sort or another, invariably supervised by Volokoss. These could be patrol missions, reconnaissance excursions, or supply runs, and were usually within R’Kalýma or to one of the closely neighboring colonies. One day he might be sent to the village on the colony’s southern edge to replenish the temple’s supply of lamp-incense or ritual ointments; another day his assignment might be to observe the migration patterns of the wildlife in the foothills of Mount Ryssh’kuun. He was even sent on another patrol to N’xid, but he did not end up doing much there: only complete his intuitive map of the town center, help a few citizens recover lost objects (though that chronomaker had certainly not needed a Findsman to recover his long-tipped pliers from his _waste-flimsi receptacle,_ for fog’s sake), and settle a few minor squabbles among play-Hunting children. He saw various black-eyed younglings any of whom could have been the governor’s son, but he encountered none that could have been the golden-eyed gardener-girl. But it was not as though he had expected to see her in any case, since it was not a market day.  
  
One evening, about a week from the harvest-season holiday period, Zuckuss noticed that Findslady Luyen’s place was vacant at the evening devotion. Figuring that she was probably merely indisposed, he thought nothing of it until he entered his customary training room the next morning to see no sign of Volokoss either. It was only a moment later that he found himself thrown against the stone wall, his arms restrained by rough claws. The familiar, foul-smelling face of Findsmaster Okkfel Taagu hovered inches from his own.  
  
“Apprentice Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd,” Okkfel snarled, his outer mandibles grinding into a scowl. “You are late.”  
  
Zuckuss struggled in Okkfel’s grip, his antennae curling away from Okkfel’s face in disgust. He managed a hurried glance around the room: Volokoss was nowhere in sight. But as unpleasant as Okkfel was, Zuckuss knew better by now than to be cowed by him. With one graceful blocking motion he freed one arm.  
  
“Begging Your Mystical Honor’s pardon, but Zuckuss is _not_ late.”  
  
Then, taking advantage of Okkfel’s closeness and inability to counter, Zuckuss struck him with full force in the lower thorax, knocking him backward onto the round meditation couch.  
  
“Not bad, Apprentice Zuckuss, not bad,” growled Okkfel as he lifted himself to his feet. “But once you have taken the Waters of Defense and grown your natural weaponry, do not even _think_ of trying such a stunt. You may find yourself hauled before the Zigaatsavii for unpremeditated slaughter.”  
  
“Understood, Master Okkfel.” _If anyone is to have the honor of being Zuckuss’s first kill,_ he thought to himself, _it most certainly won’t be you, you scurvy old son of a_ trs’kak _._  
  
“Good. Now begin.”  
  
Zuckuss bowed, seated himself, and began his customary opening Stillness of the Fog ritual. It was more difficult than usual to still his Inner Mists with Okkfel grumbling about his posture or straightening his back every few moments, but he managed at last, even earning a grunted “Fine, fine.” A lengthy series of routine meditative exercises followed, also interspersed liberally with hems, harrumphs, and posture adjustments. It was no small relief when Okkfel finally ordered him to stand up and perform the series of stretches that typically preceded combat training.  
  
Once Zuckuss had finished pulling on every joint of his arms and legs to loosen and condition them, he clasped his hands on his breast, coughed slightly, and asked the question that had been plaguing him since he had entered the room.  
  
“Findsmaster Okkfel,” he began. “If Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd might beg leave to ask where Findslady Luyen and Findsmaster Volokoss—”  
  
“What makes you think that is any concern of yours, apprentice?” came the snarled reply.  
  
“Apologies, Findsmaster Okkfel . . .” Zuckuss lowered his head. “Gand merely hopes that no harm or illness has befallen them.”  
  
“And if it has?” Okkfel snapped. “It is unseemly for an apprentice to meddle in the affairs of his masters. Now, Second Victorious Light.”  
  
“Yes, Findsmaster Okkfel.”  
  
“At your own pace. Begin.”  
  
Swallowing his frustration, Zuckuss inhaled and made the typical combat salute, bowing to Okkfel with his fists crossed over his breast. Then he began the familiar combat form. It lifted his spirits somewhat when he managed to make it through the opening sequence with only one adjustment from Okkfel (“Antennae _up!_ Shoulders _down!_ ”). On he went through the stylized motions, now striking, now blocking, now maneuvering gracefully from one fighting pose to the next, coordinating every technique with an equally stylized pattern of breaths. But Second Victorious Light was a long form, requiring a great deal of energy. Zuckuss was not surprised to find his concentration dwindling by the time he had reached the thirtieth of fifty distinct movements, nor to see Okkfel’s bulky form, watching him from the meditation couch, blurring into an indistinct lump.  
  
What did surprise him was the tingling sensation he began to notice in his left hand, like tiny prickles under his chitin. He tried to ignore it, dismissing it as a momentary nerve crimp brought on by the elaborate motions of the form. But it grew in intensity with each move he made, creeping gradually upward to encompass his lower arm, then his arm, then his shoulder, then his entire left side, then his entire body. It became difficult to feel his own motions: he saw his limbs alternately lolling and thrashing in ways that had nothing to do with Second Victorious Light, and he was powerless to stop them.  
  
And Okkfel had clearly seen the same. He had leapt to his feet and was now restraining Zuckuss firmly by both arms, his claws digging into the cloth of his apprentice’s sleeves.  
  
“What in the name of _fog and filth_ do you think you’re doing, _Gand?!_ ” he bellowed in Zuckuss’s face. “In what renegade outland sect is _that_ Second Victorious Light?!”  
  
“Gand apologizes most humbly, Findsmaster Okkfel . . .” Zuckuss was trembling despite himself. “Gand suddenly went all . . . all tingly . . .”  
  
“ _Tingly?_ What _is_ this?!”  
  
“Gand does not know . . . his nerves, maybe . . .”  
  
“Nerves? Could it be . . .” Okkfel paused a moment and loosened his grip. His antennae curled inward as he glanced quickly up and down his student’s body. But just as quickly he grabbed him again.  
  
“Now no more of this,” he barked. “A true Lhúdanswani Findsman is not hindered by such things. Start again from the double Shielding Stroke.”  
  
“But Findsmaster Okkfel . . . please . . .” Zuckuss was shocked to hear himself utter such pleading words. It was as though the horrid tingling—which was still growing faster, fiercer, and more knifelike than pinlike with each passing moment—was speaking for him. Something was wrong in his body—he knew not what, but there had to be some way to get it across to Okkfel.  
  
And he had an idea how he might do so. It was crazy, but perhaps it would work . . .  
  
He reached forward and gripped Okkfel’s face with both hands, pinning the Findsmaster’s stubby palps beneath them. With a sudden, copious breath, before Okkfel could react, he channeled his Inner Mists through the tips of his fingers and released them in a single burst of energy. Okkfel flew backward against a bookcase.  
  
“By the—” It surprised Zuckuss to hear that Okkfel’s exclamation was more perplexed than angry. “So it _is_ . . . Sit, Apprentice Zuckuss, and let Taagu examine you for a moment.”  
  
Wordlessly Zuckuss staggered to the meditation couch and slumped onto it, feeling weak and sapped but not knowing why. Okkfel came over to him and touched each of his palps and antennae.  
  
“Right or left side?” he asked.  
  
“Left.”  
  
Okkfel took Zuckuss’s left hand in his, slid a finger between the plates of his wrist, and held it there for several seconds.  
  
“Apprentice Zuckuss,” he grunted at last as he released his student’s hand. “Someone has placed a Findsman’s Mark on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Te’el-Viire-Gand, the Waters of Defense, natural weaponry, and the Zigaatsavii, see my main fanon post on Gand Findsman techniques and terminology.  
>   
> I make reference to Bilocation, which was a brainchild of my friend Beedo, in this fanon thread response and hope to add it to my main list of Gand techniques soon.  
>   
> The combat form Second Victorious Light and the _trs’kak_ (which was first conceptualized by the Findshusband and named by Beedo) are my own creations.  
>   
> Findsman’s Mark is the creation of the inimitable [Gamiel](https://boards.theforce.net/members/1376825/) and is described in this fanon post. I thank him kindly for giving me his permission to include it in this story.


	6. Chapter 6

The strange tingling of the Findsman’s Mark returned to Zuckuss off and on in the days that followed. Sometimes he would go almost an entire day without feeling it. At other times it was so severe that it hampered his concentration and hindered his movement. If it caught him by surprise in the middle of a meditation or form, it invariably knocked him into the same strange fit of twitching and flailing as before. To Zuckuss’s chagrin, this had already happened more than once during his daily training sessions, which were still administered by the irascible Okkfel. Volokoss was still inexplicably absent, and Luyen’s place at the sanctuary devotions remained empty. And Okkfel said no more about the Mark beyond asking in a perfunctory manner after his student’s health at the beginning of lessons, invariably cutting him off before he could give anything more than a brief response.  
  
It was not as though Zuckuss had never heard of the Findsman’s Mark before. The placing of a Mist-traceable mark on a being or thing one wished to find later was a well-known and time-honored technique in the Sacred Trade—one that Zuckuss would eventually learn closer to the time of his First Evaluation. Naturally he wondered who might have placed this mark on him, and why. Such Marks were always transmitted by physical contact, but the only beings with whom he regularly had such contact were Okkfel and the apprentices who trained with him in the combat arts. None of the latter had learned the technique yet, since none of them had yet had a First Evaluation. And why would Okkfel need to trace his student’s location in the Mists when he saw him every day as a matter of course? Volokoss, too, would have had ample opportunities to place such a mark on Zuckuss before making his mysterious departure. Yet even that seemed unnecessary. Even away from the temple, Volokoss would certainly have no doubt of his student’s whereabouts: he would be either pursuing his studies at the temple or at home in Rhaguin during holiday periods.  
  
Who, then, could it have been? With each passing day, and with each irksome tingling twinge, Zuckuss’s curiosity grew.  
  
It was well known, of course, that there were ways of tracing a Findsman’s Mark back through the Mists to the being who had placed it. Those skills were typically not taught until much later in a Findsman’s apprenticeship, around the time of the Second Evaluation, and they were rumored to be quite difficult. But Zuckuss did not care. He took to spending his evening rest intervals in the temple library, where he pored through tome after tome, holocube after holocube, reading all he could about the advanced techniques required for tracing a Mark and taking extensive notes on his datapad. Then he would return to his room and try them out for himself for as long as he could without completely neglecting his prescribed readings and exercises.  
  
So far his efforts had earned him nothing but fatigue and frustration. Because the luminous thread traced by the Mark through the Mists was so thin as to be nearly imperceptible, the new methods obliged him to move the Mists through his consciousness at a much more minutely controlled rate than he was currently accustomed: “more like meal through a sieve than water through a funnel,” as one source put it. He could not keep them up for long before becoming quite tired, with little energy left for his daytime studies. Nor did it help that the only library sources accessible to apprentices—none of which were more than a few decades old—were often vague or contradictory in their descriptions. Naturally he dared say nothing of his researches to Okkfel, though he suspected the cantankerous Findsmaster could sense his fatigue.  
  
But in just a few days the harvest-season holiday period would begin, and he would return home to Rhaguin. There he would have his parents’ thousand-year-old library at his disposal, and time to ponder and practice undisturbed. Nothing—at least for those few days—would stop him from doing all he could to trace his mysterious Mark.  
  
And if his father presumed to scold his son poking around in his ancient books—which of course he would—Zuckuss would merely say he was supplementing his studies of the Sacred Trade. It was perfectly true.

Evening was falling when the transport shuttle deposited Zuckuss outside his family’s residence in Rhaguin. The tall, domed house was completely dark save for a few red plasmogen security lamps placed here and there along its perimeter. Zuckuss peered into the attached hangar bay; neither the airspeeder nor _Guardian’s Glory_ was there. Twitching his travel satchel on his shoulders, Zuckuss ascended the circular stone steps to the front door, which he unlocked with a keycard from his pocket.  
  
Inside, as well, all was dark. No one was there except a housekeeping droid that occasionally whirred past to dust or sweep. Zuckuss could find no indication of his parents’ whereabouts, either in the house or on his comlink. No doubt they, like Volokoss, had been called away on assignments of some kind; that was simply the a reality of a Findsman’s life, after all. At least this meant more time for Zuckuss to devote to his researches on the Findsman’s Mark. The more of that research he could accomplish in his father’s absence, the better.  
  
After depositing his travel satchel in his old room and retrieving his datapad, Zuckuss headed to the library. He browsed through the tall shelves, pulling down as many likely-looking volumes and holocubes as he could. These he took to the large desk at one end of the room that was one of Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s favorite haunts, adding them to the precarious piles of books and parchments that were already there. Then he seated himself in the capacious desk chair, kicked off his boots, opened his robes and tunic, placed his clawed feet up on the desk, and continued the intense study of the Findsman’s Mark that he had begun back in the Lhúdanswani temple.  
  
For the next two days Zuckuss barely left the library. He would sit for hours at a time at his father’s desk studying the ancient texts and taking notes. Then he would move to the richly cushioned and curtained meditation couch in the corner of the room to try out his new techniques, sometimes with a book beside him. After that he would return to the desk and study some more, then move to the couch and meditate some more, and so on. Now and then the tingling sensation recurred, and the constant meditative exertions continued to exhaust him physically and mentally. But it hardly seemed to matter, for he felt he was finally beginning to make some progress. The old sources had described the Mark as a fine, glowing thread leading through the Mists from the marked one to the marker, and Zuckuss was beginning to see that thread at last in his meditations, bound around his left hand and leading off into a turbid, foggy distance. Occasionally the mists would part for a moment, and the thread would blossom into some luminous but indistinct shape that could be a being, a building, or an object. But whatever it was, it was always speedily engulfed again before Zuckuss could identify it. All the while, the house remained quiet; Zuckuss saw and heard no other being besides the housekeeping droid.  
  
On the third day, while Zuckuss was leaning back in his father’s desk chair, his feet up on a pile of parchment notebooks and a five-hundred-year-old holocube open in his lap, he heard the library door open. A figure in Findsman’s attire entered the room—his brother, Gorruss, who jumped in surprise when he noticed that the desk was occupied.  
  
“Father! You’re back already?!”  
  
“Use your eyes, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd!” Zuckuss clicked his mandibles open and closed in amusement as he clapped the holocube shut. “This isn’t Father—this is your little brother, Zuckuss!”  
  
“So it is,” remarked Gorruss, coming closer. “Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd indeed for not noticing. It is good to see you again, little brother. But you should watch yourself.” He flicked his claws good-naturedly against the brown chitin of his brother’s bare feet. “Father would exoskeletonize you if he caught you here poking around in his first-edition _Mirror of the Mist-Born Light_ with your big dirty feet up on his field journals.”  
  
“He has no right to complain,” retorted Zuckuss, thrusting the holocube back among the documents and tomes on the desk. “Zuckuss is doing nothing that Father has not done himself many times before. But it is good to see you again as well, brother Findsman Gorruss.”  
  
He rose. The two brothers exchanged a brief embrace, brushing their antennae together. Then Zuckuss seated himself back in the desk chair, and Gorruss on an upholstered footstool near the desk.  
  
“So,” he began, “what brings the young Trynfor of the Lhúdanswani temple back to his ancestral home?”  
  
“The harvest-season period, of course,” came the reply. “What else?”  
  
“Well, obviously. But Gorruss would be telling a falsehood if he said he didn’t wonder why in the name of the Holy Madman’s boot buckles you are spending your holiday curled up with Father’s old books.”  
  
Zuckuss gave a few clacks of hesitation. His left hand was tingling again; he tried to ignore it. “He is merely . . . trying to get an early start on his First Evaluation studies.” Quickly he changed the subject. “Where are Mother and Father?”  
  
“Mother was just called away as a _ruetsa’iiv_ to one of those tiny little northern colonies; Gorruss can’t remember which one. She commed him on his way over here and asked him to tell you if he saw you.” He paused and inhaled. “As for Father, he’s at the Great Temple again.”  
  
“What do you mean, again?”  
  
“He has been spending most of his time there since you began your apprenticeship, little brother. Anyway, he commed Gorruss a few days ago to tell him he would be there this entire week.”  
  
Zuckuss lowered his head and tapped his claws together thoughtfully. Of course it did not surprise him that his father would inform only his older son of his whereabouts, or that he would deliberately avoid his younger son during the holiday period. As one of the chief _ruetsavii,_ Fengor went often to the Great Temple, either to meditate in the mystically charged environment of the Guardian’s Quarters or to confer with the Council of Elders or his fellow _ruetsavii._ But it usually had never been for more than a day at a time.  
  
“What does he do there?”  
  
“Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd has no idea,” sighed Gorruss. “He probably locks himself in the Guardian’s Quarters and broods on this and that.”  
  
Zuckuss’s voice became defensive. “‘This and that’ nothing. It is Zuckuss”—he tapped his own chest—“that he broods on, isn’t it?”  
  
“Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd supposes it could be, but—”  
  
“Because Zuckuss is the _Uncanny One,_ right?”  
  
“Now, brother, really—”  
  
“So why in the name of fog and blood does Father keep getting his cerci in a knot about the Uncanny One?!” Zuckuss clenched his fists in frustration. It made the tingling worse, but he didn’t care. “It is part of Trynfor’s prophecy, for fog’s sake. It always has been. All of the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd have known that since the time of Zukfel. Really, what does Father think will happen to him if the Uncanny One turns out to be _his own son?!_ ”  
  
“Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd keeps forgetting that Father never explained all this to you,” Gorruss clacked apologetically. “That’s exactly it, brother. The Uncanny One will reveal Trynfor’s Treasure to all of Gand. Once he does, the Treasure will be bonded to him alone. Which means”—he leaned forward and punctuated each his words with a tap on his brother’s arm—“there will be no more need for a Guardian of the Vault, now or ever. Certainly you can see why that would not please Father.”  
  
“But what about you, brother Findsman Gorruss?” The name and title were uttered in almost a sneer. “Does it not trouble you to think that you will never be the Guardian yourself, all because of this upstart little brother of yours?”  
  
Gorruss erupted in cheerful clicks. “Not in the least! Gorruss has never cared about that. Doesn’t a Findsman have enough to do without guarding trinkets in rusty old vaults? It’s probably nothing but an old pocket chronometer. Or perhaps a pair of cuff clips.” He paused. “Say, brother, if you’re the Uncanny One, aren’t you supposed to—”  
  
“NO! HE DOES NOT!” Zuckuss sprang from the chair, clattering his mandibles angrily. Then just as suddenly, he suddenly sank back into the chair and exhaled. “Some Uncanny One this Gand is.”  
  
They sat in silence for a few moments, Gorruss looking at Zuckuss and Zuckuss looking down at his hands as he fidgeted with them, trying unsuccessfully to quell the stubborn residual prickles of the Mark. At last he shuffled back into his boots and stood up.  
  
“Perhaps Gand had better go make himself a nice samovar of _djelatha_. Would you like any, brother?”  
  
“No, gracious thanks. Gorruss is more a Madman’s Tears type. Perhaps, if you feel so inclined, you could fetch him a small bottle of Triaanvi while you’re down in the cellar getting the _djelatha_ things. You’ll need the key to the cold-cave, of course.” He pulled a small metal key from one of his inner pockets and reached it over to his brother.  
  
Zuckuss snatched up the key. “Of course, brother Findsman Gorruss,” he replied, stepping back and bowing to his brother in an exaggerated manner. “Just as Father so often says: ‘let youth and fire submit themselves to age and accomplishment.’”

* * *

Zuckuss thrust Gorruss’s key into a pocket as he descended to the cellar. It felt almost strange to be going there merely to fetch _djelatha_ and Madman’s Tears. Almost every time he had been to the basement as a child had been as punishment. His father used to send him and his brother there to clean the trash-compactor filter or scrub the mineral deposits from the sewage processor if he caught them sneaking _quaag_ from the kitchen or hunting gear from the supply closets. Gorruss used to half regale, half spook his younger brother with stories of the tentacled, child-eating monsters that lurked in the musty shadows—monsters that would grab him and suck the very flesh from under his exoskeleton plates if he cried or complained. Zuckuss could not help but pause on the step and feel for his utility blade as he remembered these tall tales from the past. Then he reminded himself that he was now an adult and a Findsman, and continued on his way.  
  
A wooden door opposite the stairs led him to the herb storage and preparation room. Dried herbs, flowers, and roots of all colors and descriptions hung from the ceiling above a stone counter. Others were piled in cabinets alongside an assortment of phials, bowls, infusers, strainers, tongs, and various other accessories, and those that needed to stay moist were stored in the hydroponic refrigeration unit along one wall. Zuckuss unhooked a bundle of reddish leaves from the ceiling, then fetched a mesh bag of white-pink flowers from the refrigeration unit. From a covered tray on the shelf above the work surface, he took the cylindrical metal samovar that belonged to his mother’s ceremonial _djelatha_ service, which his family had used as long as he could remember to prepare what was known as “the brew of peace and serenity.”  
  
Rolling his three layers of sleeves up to his elbows, he filled the samovar from two spigots on the wall and ignited its chemoelectric heating element. Then he scraped off a few of the dried red leaves and ground them in a small stone mortar. Zuckuss added a few of the white-pink flowers to the mortar and pressed them gently into the mixture of ground leaves, then emptied the whole into a spherical wire-mesh infuser. Once tiny gurgles from the samovar announced that it was boiling, he dropped in the infuser, then lowered the heating element to the minimum setting. It would take several minutes for the flavors of the _djel_ leaves and flowers to interpenetrate and infuse into the ammonia-water mixture.  
  
In the meantime, Zuckuss rolled down his sleeves and descended a short flight of stairs to a metal door. He unlocked it with Gorruss’s key. This was the first time he had ever been to his family’s cold-cave—he and his brother had never been allowed in there as children, and it was always kept locked. Not only were all medicines and intoxicants stored there, but it was also rumored (by Gorruss, of course) to be home to the nastiest and slimiest tentacled monsters in the entire cellar.  
  
Of course there were no such things there at all. The cold-cave was a small, circular, and perfectly silent room of black stone, its walls lined with bottles, flasks, and phials of every imaginable kind. One of the middle shelves contained several round, long-necked bottles containing light aqua liquid. Zuckuss was about to take one of them down when his eyes fell on a different bottle, sitting in the back corner of the shelf, that was much larger and older-looking than the others and bore several old-fashioned wax seals around its neck.  
  
Zuckuss lifted it down and looked at it. He was not sure why, for it was not what Gorruss had asked for—he had wanted one of the smaller bottles of Triaanvi, and this was Rhak’táan Ancient Reserve. Rhak’táan was one of Gand’s oldest and most prestigious distilleries, and it was said—though no one knew how rightly—that their Ancient Reserve blend of Madman’s Tears contained real tears from the all-seeing golden eyes of Trynfor the Mad. The glass was coated with a thin layer of mixed condensation and dust. It was cold to the touch and made the sensory setae of Zuckuss’s fingers bristle.  
  
Just then the Mark began to tingle in Zuckuss’s left hand, causing it to tremble and twitch. As it did, the bottle shook, and countless flakes of filmy dark-indigo sediment danced in the light of equally countless tiny bubbles. Zuckuss tried to steady himself with his other hand, but the tingling only grew stronger, the shaking more uncontrollable.  
  
He doubled over, clinging to the bottle with both arms to keep it from falling and breaking. But just then some unseen force wrenched his left hand from the bottle and twisted it violently, forcing him downward. A shrieked curse escaped him as his knees hit the stone floor full force. And the curse metamorphosed into a yelp of fear.  
  
The bottle was safe, but it now glowed blue-golden with the glittering of millions of furiously swirling bubbles. In their light Zuckuss could see the luminous bond of the Mark on his left hand. But it was not the fine thread of which the ancient writings had spoken. It was thick cords of golden light that bound his entire lower arm—thick cords that crackled with angry electricity against his struggling . . .  
  
. . . before pulling him against his will into the rushing, crashing, and whirling of the blue-golden vortex.  
  
Then, as suddenly as it had engulfed him, the vortex calmed and solidified into shapes. They were not the glowing, indeterminate shapes that had so often frustrated his earlier attempts to track the Mark, but rather the clear, recognizable shapes of places he had been before.  
  
And the bright trace of the Mark wound its way through them: _from a hoverbus shelter to a humble cottage . . . around the side of the cottage . . . through the chinks of a garden wall . . . weaving and coiling amid curling foliage . . . all before flaring upward into a golden blaze—_  
  
 _—in the palm of a small, outstretched hand._  
  
And then all went dark: the bottle, the room, Zuckuss’s own eyes.

* * *

“What’s the matter with you, brother?! In the name of the Mists, speak!”  
  
Zuckuss opened his eyes. He was sprawled on his side, and Gorruss was crouched over him, gripping his shoulders and shaking him. The bottle of Rhak’táan Ancient Reserve lay on its side, unbroken, its contents clear and blue once again. Gorruss started to help his brother up, but Zuckuss shook himself free of his grip and sprang to his feet.  
  
“Gorruss. Did you bring your airspeeder here?”  
  
“Yes, but why—”  
  
“Zuckuss must borrow it.”  
  
“ _Borrow_ it? Why in the—”  
  
“Zuckuss will explain later. He may not tarry now. Please let Zuckuss borrow your airspeeder.”  
  
“But at least go pour your _djelatha_ before it turns—”  
  
Zuckuss lunged at his brother, grabbing the collar of his robes as his triple-layered mandibles ground angrily.  
  
“Give Zuckuss your airspeeder keycard _now!_ ”  
  
“Fine, fine!” Gorruss pulled free of his brother’s grip and drew a small metallic keycard from an inner pocket with a trembling hand. “Here! But woe betide you if Gorruss finds the smallest scratch on his new enamelplate!”  
  
Zuckuss snatched the keycard, hurried out of the cold-cave, and clumped up the stairs with a hasty “Thank you graciously, brother Findsman Gorruss!” and nary a look back at the brother addressed.  
  
Gorruss ran up after, only to find his brother already gone. He positioned himself by the front window and stood watching. After several minutes, he saw a sleek bronze airspeeder shoot past and disappear into the misty night.  
  
 _Young Trynfor the Mad indeed,_ he thought to himself. _With an emphasis on “mad.”_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for **character death** in this chapter.

Storms were brewing in N’xid. Blue-gray storm-fogs churned angrily in the sky. A brisk wind buffeted the bronze airspeeder as Zuckuss brought it in to dock near the hoverbus shelter at the colony’s edge. Quickly he disembarked and performed a Ritual of Wayseeking. The wind whipped his robes about him as he stood there, concentrating with all his might on the location of the humble cottage with the walled garden. Once or twice he felt the Findsman’s Mark crackle faintly in his left hand, like a feeble surge of electricity in a frayed wire.  
  
After several minutes of walking into the wind, he arrived at the gardener family’s cottage. All the windows were dark. As he came closer, he could see that one window was broken and that the front door was ajar. He paused by it for a moment and listened for any sound of life. There was nothing.  
  
Then, keeping one hand on the vibroblade in his pocket—he was not yet authorized to carry energy weapons—he pushed the door open and crept inside.  
  
He was in the main living area of the house, and even in the dim light his natural ultraviolet vision could pick up all the signs of a violent struggle. All the furniture—a few simple chairs and tables—had all been either shoved aside or overturned. An antique neuro-lamp lay shattered on the floor, its remains mingling with those of the broken window and crunching unpleasantly underfoot. There was still no sign or sound of life.  
  
Still gripping the weapon in his pocket, Zuckuss proceeded into the kitchen. There, too, violence had been done: the benches were toppled, and the floor was covered with pottery shards, food slops, and garden waste. But the most horrible sight of all was that of the two forms that lay motionless at weird angles against the table, their mandibles and eyes frozen open in shock.  
  
Even after his single previous visit, Zuckuss could recognize them instantly as the mother and father of the gardener girl—Lekli and the elder Viurraanvi.  
  
He came closer and examined them both. Out of habit he put a claw between the chitin plates of the mother’s wrist to feel for a pulse, only to withdraw it as he noticed the charred hole in her thorax—and in that of her husband. Both had been shot with some kind of powerful blaster.  
  
Then his eye fell on something sticking out from under the father’s side—a strip of fabric, it seemed to be, though he could see no specifics in his ultraviolet vision alone. He took a flashlight from his pocket and leaned in for a closer look. The Mark twinged again as he did.  
  
It was a scarf of soft green fabric, threadbare in several spots, and the golden-yellow embroidery adorning it was beginning to fray.  
  
Snatching it up and drawing his vibroblade, Zuckuss rushed into the back rooms of the house. There was no one there: both the child’s quarters and those of her parents were undisturbed. He hurried back to the kitchen and out the back door to the garden. He was too angry, too agitated to notice that the wind had grown stronger and that the air had become heavy with imminent rain.  
  
“Viurraanvi!” he shouted.  
  
There was no answer.  
  
“VIURRAANVI! ANSWER!”  
  
Again no answer except for a brief tingle from the Mark. Zuckuss pocketed the vibroblade and glanced about the garden. Other than the darkness and the rustling of the leaves in the wind, everything seemed more or less as he remembered it from his previous visit—though there was now a faint light coming from the glasshouse in the far corner. He ran toward it, not minding the plants he was trampling. Out of the corner facets of his eye he noticed that there was no longer a planter hanging by the door.  
  
The dim, guttering glow of a single plant light shone from within. Zuckuss stood on tiptoe and looked inside, but from ground level it was difficult to make out much else besides the lush masses of purple-leaved plants and the heavy, white-gray steam-mist that hung all around them. He climbed up the neighboring garden wall and peered in through a hole in a cracked ceiling pane.  
  
There, sitting on the dank, dirty floor amid a press of plants, was the gardener girl, the young Viurraanvi. She was in a meditative position, with her eyes closed and her hands clasped in her lap. But she was trembling violently, as if in the throes of intense emotion; her mandibles were tightly clenched, and her shoulders and hands gave occasional sharp twitches. Zuckuss felt his own hand twitch too as the Mark sparked anew with pain.  
  
“VIURRAANVI!”  
  
There was no response, so wrapped was the girl in her grief-stricken trance. Zuckuss noticed that something was sitting beside her on the floor: the small planter, now filled with curling purple-blue leaves and three bloom stalks.  
  
He knocked again on the glass. Still nothing. The wind blew colder; a few raindrops grazed his antennae.  
  
He jumped down from the wall and rattled the door handle. It was locked, but he kept rattling.  
  
“VIURRAANVI! IN THE MISTS’ NAME! OPEN!”  
  
Zuckuss was about to draw his vibroblade and force the lock when a light came on in the cottage, followed by the sounds of motion. Quickly he scaled the wall again and clambered along it till he was hidden by a nearby treetop.  
  
Three figures, wearing the garb of Findsmen and carrying various energy weapons, emerged from the cottage and began to investigate the garden. They were speaking to each other in muffled tones, but the rustle of the wind kept Zuckuss from discerning anything more than the occasional whispered “She must be out here” or “This way!” or “May it not be too late!”  
  
After a few moments one of them noticed the light in the glasshouse and gestured to the others, who followed. Another one pocketed its blaster, drew a knife, and began to pick the lock. That one, Zuckuss thought, looked a bit hunched . . .  
  
And indeed, in the dim glow emanating from the glasshouse, he could see clearly that it was none other than his own long-absent Findsmaster, Volokoss Ratokk, and that Findslady Luyen Dzi’kel was beside him. He could not yet see the third figure, which hung back several steps from them, holding a shockstaff at the ready and casting cautious glances about the garden. Only once Volokoss had gotten the door open and had gestured to his colleagues to enter could Zuckuss finally see who it was. What he saw made him shrink farther back into the foliage.  
  
It was his mother, Otila Khassvani.  
  
Zuckuss remembered what his brother had told him: she had been called away as a _ruetsa’iiv_ to one of the smaller northern colonies. Apparently that small northern colony was N’xid, and the other two members of the _ruetsavii-tí’kaa_ were his two mysteriously absent mentors. All of them had left their accustomed abodes in order to examine none other than the golden-eyed gardener-girl of N’xid, young Viurraanvi. The thought of it gave Zuckuss a certain small measure of pride, even now as he was struggling to hide from his mother’s sight. For he, after all, had been the one who had first brought this extraordinary youngster to his teachers’ attention.  
  
Young Viurraanvi still sat there, meditating and sobbing. Zuckuss watched as the three _ruetsavii_ approached her, stowing or laying aside their weapons and whispering among themselves. After some time, Luyen knelt quietly beside the girl, laying one hand on her head and the other on her narrow shoulder. She began to whisper in the girl’s earhole in the dark, mystical language of the Book of Light, and each of her words was like a distant thunderpeal through the swish of the wind. For several moments she stayed there, whispering, but the girl remained in her trance. The Hand of Rescue was not working.  
  
Luyen gestured to Otila to join her, and they applied the Hand of Rescue together. For another several moments nothing happened. Both whispered to her together in chant-like harmony. Still nothing happened.  
  
Suddenly the girl shuddered violently, her arms flailing and her head jerking backward. At the same time a surge of pain shot upward from Zuckuss’s Marked hand. He ground his mandibles, barely stopping himself from crying out as it coursed through his left arm and all the way up to his brain—where it exploded in a firestorm of horrible images . . .

_The door bursts open. They dash in, both clad in gray tunics marked with a crest—the governor’s crest—with blasters and vibroblades drawn._   
  
_Father approaches them. Before he can so much as offer greeting, one grabs him, the other holds a blade to his throat._   
  
_“You—you—by the Mists, let go!” The sturdy gardener struggles to free himself. A brutal scuffle ensues. Furniture and lamps crash to the floor._   
  
_The struggle carries to the kitchen. Benches are toppled, crockery shatters, blood spatters as the intruders’ keening blades graze chitin and flesh._   
  
_Mother rushes in. “What is this?!” she screams. “Let him go!”_   
  
_She grabs her husband to pull him free of his captor, but the second of the two intruders is too quick for her. With a shriek of “Quiet, female!” he puts a blaster bolt through her thorax. She collapses sideways onto the corner of the table._   
  
_Just then: “THERE SHE IS! THE GIRL! GET HER!”_   
  
_In an instant one of them is upon her. She wriggles and screams in his clutches._   
  
_“You scum, if you lay one hand on Viurraanvi’s daughter—”_   
  
_A bolt of green light, a screech of pain, and Father too is silenced._   
  
_“And you, you little worm! You’ll suffer for what you did to the governor!”_   
  
_“Viurraanvi didn’t—” Her words are cut off as her captor grips her higher on the around the neck—but his grip loosens again as she digs all three of her mandible pairs into his wrist._   
  
_“LITTLE FOG-BORN SAVAGE!” he shrieks. She wriggles free. He grabs her by her scarf, but she pulls away, leaving it in his grip, and runs as fast as she can out the kitchen door and into the garden. He and his fellow run after her, crushing underfoot the orderly rows of plants beneath heavy boots._   
  
_“Get back here, you little—”_   
  
_But she has already reached the glasshouse. The door slams shut, a metal bolt falls, and the girl disappears into the thick mass of plants. The governors’ agents pound angrily on the transparisteel panels._   
  
_“Get out here! NOW!”_   
  
_She gives them no answer. For several minutes—a near-eternity—they pound and shout. She remains silent, retreating deeper into the leaves so they cannot see her trembling._   
  
_At last they give up and leave, and she is all alone. Overwhelmed with exhaustion and grief, she crumples to the wet, dirty floor and stays there. Hours pass. Only once does she budge from the spot—to bring her own little plant, her moonbow orchid, inside from the brewing storm. Then she sinks down again, motionless._

* * *

“HE’S HERE!” A shrill cry from below in the glasshouse pierced the air. “THE APPRENTICE! HE’S HERE!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hand of Rescue, Ritual of Wayseeking, _ruetsa’iiv_ and _ruetsavii-tí’kaa_ (related forms of the established word _ruetsavii_ ), and moonbow orchids (originally **Beedo** ’s creation) are my own fanon creations and are described in my Gand fanon post.  
>   
> The neuro-lamp is the fanon creation of **Viridian-Maiden** , described here.  
>   
> Findsman’s Mark, again, is the creation of **Gamiel** , described here.


	8. Chapter 8

“HE’S HERE!”  
  
The cry shook Zuckuss from a trance he did not realize had seized him. Down below in the glasshouse he saw the golden-eyed girl, now fully conscious, trembling violently in Luyen’s embrace. The other two _ruetsavii_ hovered nearby, trying to comfort and steady her. Again and again she cried out “He’s here!” and “The apprentice is here!” in tones that were half awed, half anguished. The Mark in Zuckuss’s hand crackled anew with each cry. He pulled his robes closer about him; the rain had increased to a steady drizzle, and the wind rustled more insistently in the treetops.  
  
“There now, there now, sweet one.” Luyen spoke gently, pressing the girl close to her. “What is wrong? Who is here?”  
  
“Is it Apprentice Zuckuss?” Volokoss spoke before the girl could answer.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The young Findsman you met at the marketplace. Zuckuss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd is his name. Is that who you mean, young one?”  
  
“Oh yes, . . . yes, that is his name . . . Zuckuss.” A shiver shot through Zuckuss at the sound of his name from the mysterious youngster. This time it was not the Mark but something stronger, something that pierced him to the very heart and lungs.  
  
Volokoss placed a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Ah, but young one, Volokoss does not see how he could possibly be here. He is spending the harvest-season holiday period at his family’s home in Rhaguin. Volokoss saw him board the transport himself.”  
  
“But Viurraanvi can feel that he’s here—in her hand . . .” She clattered the claws of her left hand together as she spoke.  
  
“In your hand, young one?” Volokoss clacked quizzically, turning to Luyen. “Findslady Luyen, you don’t suppose she could possibly mean—”  
  
“She is correct. He is here.”  
  
It was Otila who spoke. She was now on her feet, looking intently around. Her hand was upraised in a cupped gesture as if she were trying to catch the air in it—and indeed, a few of the white-gray mists swirled down toward her hand, circling it. Up on the garden wall, Zuckuss tutted to himself. He knew it was inevitable that his mother, like all Gand parents, would sooner or later become aware of her child’s presence.  
  
“My younger son is here.” Otila extended her hand to Viurraanvi and lifted her to her feet. “Shall we go seek him together?”  
  
“There’s no need.” The girl and the three _ruetsavii_ looked up at the sound of a young male voice from overhead. It was followed by a loud rustling and crackling of tree branches, then a muffled thud as someone or something hit the ground. In a few moments a pair of silver compound eyes was visible outside the glasshouse door, and claws were heard rapping on it. The youngster perked up instantly, all her trembling gone.  
  
Otila opened the door for her son. Before he could say anything, she engulfed him in a massive embrace and touched her antennae to his.  
  
“My true young hunter,” she murmured, clicking proudly, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Now listen, be gentle with the young one when you speak to her. She has just been telling us how her parents were killed by the colony governor’s agents.”  
  
“Yes, of course, Mother. Zuckuss kn—” He narrowly stopped himself. “Yes, Mother.” Gently he freed himself from her arms, then turned to face the golden-eyed girl.  
  
She was standing motionless, gazing at him. Her eyes shone like two golden stars through the dull, steamlike gloom, full of wonder and full of questions. At the mere sight of them Zuckuss felt his mind flood with all of the things he had ever wondered about her. Why had she placed the Findsman’s Mark on him? Did she even know she had Marked him, or what it would do to him? Where had she learned how to execute Findsman’s Marks and Rhak’zel dust vortex attacks? And why had she shown him—for he was convinced that she had shown him, consciously and deliberately—her memories of parents’ terrible fate? Could he offer her any help or comfort after that terrible loss? He longed to ask all these things and more, but no words came to him. Nor did the continued presence of his mother and his two exalted teachers make matters any easier.  
  
Finally he gave a slight bow and salute, just as he had done when he first visited her in the garden, and said simply, “Greetings, young one.”  
  
“Greetings,” came the quiet response.  
  
For a moment they stood still, looking at each other and saying nothing. Then, in a moment of sudden realization, Zuckuss pulled the tattered, embroidered green scarf from his inner pocket and handed it to the girl.  
  
“This is yours . . . is it not?”  
  
“Yes. Gracious thanks.” Tentatively she reached out a hand to take it, then wrapped it around her neck. The fraying gold threads glinted as she did so, as if catching light from her eyes.  
  
There was silence again, filled only by the now-distant patter of the rain on the panes of the glasshouse. Zuckuss’s hand moved to his chest, directly over the pocket where the scarf had been. Although it was no longer there, its pressure seemed somehow to remain. At last he spoke, and she spoke at the same time.  
  
“Well, Zuckuss supposes he had better—”  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
Zuckuss crunched his inner mandibles. What a question! Did she really not know? “Zuckuss is here because you brought him here,” he stated, half brusquely. “You, young one, placed a Findsman’s Mark on him, and he is here.”  
  
The three _ruetsavii_ exchanged thoughtful looks. Then Luyen gestured to Zuckuss.  
  
“Your hands, please, Apprentice Zuckuss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.”  
  
He extended his hands to her; she took them in hers and examined them carefully. Then she placed a claw between the chitin plates of his wrist, just as Okkfel had done some days ago.  
  
“There is indeed a Findsman’s Mark on him,” she said at last to her colleagues. “A rudimentary one, but recognizable. Now your hands, Viurraanvi.” The girl also offered her hands, and Luyen examined them in the same way. “And there is the corresponding trace. Most unusual. This certainly calls for further investigation. Honored colleagues?”  
  
Volokoss and Otila clicked in assent and turned to Luyen, and they began to confer with each other in hushed tones. Meanwhile, Zuckuss and the golden-eyed girl were still looking at each other, both seemingly equally unsure of what to say. Zuckuss found his eyes moving between the golden-eyed girl and the lush, strange growth unfurling from the planter beside her. He supposed he could ask her what it was, just by way of making conversation.  
  
“Zuckuss was wondering—”  
  
“If Viurraanvi may ask—”  
  
Again they spoke at the same time, again they broke off at the same time. The girl lowered her eyes and gave a soft clack.  
  
“Please pardon Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd for interrupting you, young one. You were saying?”  
  
“You said . . . what was it you said . . .”  
  
“What _was_ it Zuckuss said?”  
  
“Something about a . . . Findsman’s Mark?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Is that . . . really what it’s called?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But Gand is no Findswoman . . .” She paused and inhaled. “Gand had no idea if it would even work . . .”  
  
“It worked,” Zuckuss rejoined. “And it led Zuckuss to you. But . . .” His voice softened slightly. “What exactly was it that you did? And when?”  
  
“At the market . . . when you took Gand’s hand to help her to her feet . . . she . . .”  
  
“Yes? Go on.”  
  
“She tried sending a . . . a sort of spark of energy into you . . .”  
  
“Spark of _energy?_ ”  
  
“Yes, or something . . . in case it would help her find you again. And then, after it all happened—”  
  
She broke off suddenly, overcome by sobs and tremors, and buried her face in her arms. The _ruetsavii_ broke from their consultation and looked over to see what was the matter. Otila shot her son a disapproving look, but he barely noticed it, for once again the terrible scenes of the two gardeners’ death were flashing before him: the vibroblades, the blasters, the blood, the bodies on the floor. At last they vanished as she breathed in, looked up, and began again.  
  
“After it all happened . . . Viurraanvi thought . . . perhaps you would be able to help her. So . . . she tried to . . . to find you. But . . . you found her first.”  
  
Zuckuss gave a sorrowful pop with his outer mandibles. “Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd is deeply sorry about . . . about your mother and father.”  
  
“Kind thanks.”  
  
There was another pause. Zuckuss glanced around, noticing that the three elders had returned to their conversation. He could barely make out something about burial rites and contacting the local authorities. The girl’s eyes were still turned downward, and her hands were tightly clenched. He inhaled and spoke again.  
  
“But—if Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd may resume to ask—why him, of all the Gand? Certainly you have friends or relations who—” He cut himself off. “Certainly someone else could have helped you.”  
  
“But . . . but you were the one Viurraanvi . . . saw all those times.”  
  
“Yes, you said that to Zuckuss before.” Zuckuss noticed the hiss of impatience in his own voice. The _ruetsavii_ apparently had as well, for they were now looking at him again. “But what has it to do with . . . any of this?”  
  
“Peace now, my youngest,” Otila interposed, coming over to her son and tapping him on the shoulder. “The young one is tired and grieving. She has had enough questions for today.”  
  
“But Mother, Findslady Luyen, Findsmaster Volokoss . . .” He glanced at the other _ruetsavii,_ who remained calm and immobile. “It simply makes no sense.”  
  
“It makes perfect sense in light of everything she has told us. Oh, do not be so surprised, my youngest,” Otila added as Zuckuss’s mouthparts clacked querulously. “We have been visiting her and conversing with her daily for more than a week, according to our duty as _ruetsavii._ ” Her voice became quieter as she continued. “Her parents—may the Mists preserve their memory—were most kind in allowing us an hour a day with her, even when it interfered with their garden-work schedule.”  
  
“In that time she has told us much about the things she has ‘seen,’ as she says,” Luyen continued. “The conversations she has had with Luyen and her colleagues have given them much upon which to consult and meditate further.”  
  
Zuckuss ground his innermost mouthparts and tapped his claws together. This “much upon which to consult and meditate further” business did not sound promising, especially if it involved him.  
  
Volokoss, sensing his student’s unease, drew closer, his eyes twinkling. “Does this trouble you, Apprentice Zuckuss? It is only natural that the girl should speak of you. You were the one who helped her and who first told Volokoss and his fellow examiners of her. For which they thank you.”  
  
Zuckuss glanced from the three elders to Viurraanvi. She was now looking up at him, her golden eyes now illuminated with at least a tentative gleam of cheer. What Volokoss said was true enough; indeed, the same thought had occurred to him earlier when he had seen his mother and the two Findsmasters arrive on the scene. But whatever pride those thoughts might have engendered was now swallowed up by an intense curiosity—one he recognized as a stronger, keener version of the curiosity he had felt during his first conversation with the golden-eyed girl all those months ago.  
  
What had she been telling her august examiners about these visions of hers, these visions of him? She had told him nothing of them, beyond that she had had them. Were they true visions, the authentic revelation of the Mists? But certainly that was for the _ruetsavii_ to determine, not for him. Meanwhile, there was one small corner of his mind that kept wandering, for no discernible reason, to the moonbow orchid with its three bloom stalks . . .  
  
“Seleuno crossed with Tattflyssia. Mother and Father gave it to Viurraanvi to be her own little plant. It has never—” She stopped, noticing that Zuckuss’s mandibles were now splayed open in surprise. “Oh. Apologies. Gand did not mean to . . . to . . .”  
  
“No matter, young one,” he replied as his original clack of astonishment dissolved into smaller clicks of resignation. After all the unusual things he had seen this girl do and heard her say, he supposed it shouldn’t surprise him that she could also read his thoughts. After a moment he spoke again, much more quietly.  
  
“Well, perhaps Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd should be on his way. He has intruded long enough. With your leave, honored teachers.” He reverenced each of the three Findsmasters with the prescribed gestures. Each returned the gesture in turn, and his mother touched her antennae to his once again.  
  
“And you, young Viurraanvi.” His glance at her was sidelong, all but avoiding her golden gaze. “May the Mists show you the way.”  
  
“Wait—” she began, her hand extended toward him. But he was already out the door and halfway up the garden wall. Upon reaching the top he paused again and peered through the hole in the glass roof. Once again, down below among the leaves and steam, the _ruetsavii_ were circled around the young girl, alternately comforting her and conferring with each other.  
  
Then one of them—it was too difficult to see who—took something small from the pocket of his or her robe and handed it to the girl. She looked at it, then turned quickly to face her examiners. As she did her eyes were like two golden supernovae piercing the gloom.

* * *

After parking Gorruss’s speeder in the guest hangar, Zuckuss stood again in the dark, red-lit vestibule of the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd home. He initiated Sneaking Mist, the Findsman’s discipline of stealth, for he did not want Gorruss to hear him; he was thoroughly worn out from all his traveling and was in no mood for small talk. The Mists padded his footsteps and muffled his robes as he slipped upstairs to his childhood bedchamber. Once there, he took a deep breath and threw himself face-down on the bed.  
  
But he could not rest. Dark emotions churned within him, and anger was chief among them. He was angry with himself for not having properly boosted his reserve endorphins—his Waking Waters, as the ancient texts called them—before undertaking his journey to N’xid. He was fiercely angry at the governor of N’xid, at his henchmen, and at that foul, accursed black-eyed son of his—for how could anyone doubt that this had all started with _him_? He felt deep sadness for the gardeners and their daughter; he felt deep regret that he had arrived in N’xid too late to help them. He felt as though none of his own successes mattered in the face of that disastrous loss—not even the fact that he had taught himself how to trace a Findsman’s Mark before even reaching his First Evaluation.  
  
And once again, coursing like a current beneath all those feelings of gloom, there was that intense, consuming curiosity—about the gardener-girl herself, about her visions, and about what she had said to the _ruetsavii_. He supposed he could consult the Mists on the subject, but right now he was simply too tired.  
  
He was not sure how long he had been lying there before that familiar voice burst out with “ _There_ you are, brother!,” but he was certain it had not been long enough.  
  
Zuckuss growled an oath, followed by “Greetings, Brother Findsman Gorruss.”  
  
“Gorruss thought he would check on you. He would appreciate his speeder keycard back as well.”  
  
Zuckuss rummaged through his inner pockets. Finally he pulled out the small metal rectangle and reached it over to his brother.  
  
“Here you are. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd expresses the profoundest appreciation.” He flopped back down onto his cushions.  
  
“No trouble at all,” Gorruss replied, snatching up the keycard and stowing it safely in his tunic pocket. “How went your . . . journey?”  
  
“It was without incident,” came the mumbled reply.  
  
“Gorruss is gladdened to hear. By the way, Gorruss just received a comm message. He thinks it might be from Mother.”  
  
“Yes?” Zuckuss turned onto one side. “What does she say?”  
  
Gorruss took a handheld comlink from his inner pocket and tapped at it with his claws. “Yes, it is from Mother.” He took a deep breath and began to read aloud. “‘Leaving N’xid’—oh, _that’s_ where she went, Gorruss had forgotten the name—‘will be home in two days. Tell little brother if you see him. Regrets couldn’t converse with him longer.’ What does she mean, she couldn’t converse with you longer? Did you see her while you were away, brother?”  
  
“Yes,” Zuckuss muttered. “Briefly.”  
  
“So you were in _N’xid?_ Whatever in the name of the Holy Madman’s tunic-straps were you doing _there?_ ”  
  
Zuckuss felt his mandibles beginning to grind in anger at his brother’s inquisitiveness, but calmed himself suddenly as a suitable answer occurred to him. “Zuckuss was studying for his First Evaluation, that’s what.”  
  
“Ah.” Gorruss paused and gave a few quizzical clicks. “You are bold indeed to attempt such a thing in a colony without even a proper subtemple. But whatever suits you, brother Findsman Zuckuss. Gorruss shall leave you to your rest.” He gave a brief gesture of salutation and left the room.  
  
“A wise idea,” Zuckuss grumbled, not caring whether or not his brother could hear him. Alone once again with his fatigue, his frustration, and his overwhelming curiosity, he rolled over and closed his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

At last the holiday period drew to a close, and Zuckuss returned to his studies at the Lhúdanswani temple. Volokoss had returned as well, and was once again supervising his daily lessons as usual. Luyen was still absent, or at least Zuckuss had not seen her in the temple hallways or at the morning and evening sanctuary devotions since his return. This time, however, he was less worried about her absence; he surmised that she must be looking after the orphaned gardener-girl of N’xid, who could not in good conscience be left alone at the mercy of the governor’s henchmen.  
  
Zuckuss still occasionally thought of the gardener-girl. Images of her would flash in his mind during his meditations—her small form huddled on the floor of the glasshouse, trembling with grief and fear; the _ruetsavii_ around her, comforting and counseling her; the blaze of her golden eyes turning suddenly toward him—though he knew from his studies that such momentary flashbacks were far from uncommon after stressful experiences. Now and then he felt the pangs of that old consuming curiosity about her and her visions, but he was always able to subdue them with his calming disciplines.  
  
At least that Findsman’s Mark of hers was finally showing signs of wearing off. Its strength had already diminished considerably since Zuckuss’s departure from N’xid, though occasional twinges still recurred. Volokoss checked it every day, helping his student through various self-healing techniques to speed its complete dissolution.  
  
“Good, good,” he said one day as he examined Zuckuss’s left hand with a small loupe. “Not long now. One level-two Flowing Stillness this evening, another tomorrow morning, and all should be back to normal. Findslady Luyen will be pleased. And before you ask, because Volokoss knows you are wondering”—he tapped with his claw on his student’s palm before releasing it—“she is at the Araswani temple on Kazul-Lokúrei.”  
  
“The Araswani temple?” Zuckuss noticed the mandible-pop of surprise in his own response. He knew of the place: it was an ancient, half-abandoned temple on one of the highest mountains in R’Kalýma, maintained by one of the more reclusive and ascetic Findsman sects; it seemed an odd place for Findslady Luyen to be looking for accommodations for the gardener-girl. “But Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd thought she was—”  
  
“She _is,_ ” came the Findsmaster’s reply. “Seeing to young Viurraanvi of N’xid, that is. That is what you were going to say, is it not?”  
  
“Yes, Findsmaster Volokoss. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd knows it is not his place—”  
  
“Nothing to be ashamed of, young one,” continued the Findsmaster as he placed the loupe carefully inside a nearby cupboard. “In any case, Findslady Luyen has taken the young one there to further evaluate her abilities and determine her fitness for apprenticeship in the Sacred Trade. Your mother is accompanying them.”  
  
“But certainly they are not planning to have the girl trained by the _Araswani?!_ ”  
  
“Calm yourself, dear boy!” Volokoss shut the cupboard with a thud. “Of course not. The Araswani would never take a female, no matter how gifted. Findslady Luyen simply wished to evaluate her in an environment free of distractions. You remember . . . what state she was in.”  
  
“Yes, Findsmaster Volokoss.” Zuckuss felt a tiny prickle from the Mark; he clenched his left hand tightly within his right as if trying to hide it, though he knew it made no difference. “If Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd may presume to ask—and please correct him if he is wrong—”  
  
“Yes, young one?”  
  
“The Findsmasters of this temple are already . . . at capacity, are they not?”  
  
Volokoss opened his mandibles as if to answer, but closed them again suddenly and stood in silent thought for a few moments, giving an occasional pensive clack. When he finally spoke, he said only, “Yes, they are.”  
  
There was uneasy silence for several moments. Zuckuss fidgeted with his hands; Volokoss stood looking at him, then finally spoke again.  
  
“Now stand up, stretch, and show Volokoss Victorious Light forms one through four.”  
  
“Yes, Findsmaster Volokoss.” Zuckuss bowed his head in deference, his eyes half closed, then rose and did as his teacher instructed. Neither of them said anything more about the gardener-girl or N’xid.

* * *

Days passed, and it became time for Zuckuss to begin preparing for his First Evaluation—the comprehensive examination that would signal the end of the first phase of his apprenticeship and would qualify him to advance to the level of a senior apprentice. His training schedule doubled in intensity. The larger part of his evening rest period was now occupied with intense study of the forms, meditative techniques, sacred texts, and historical and philosophical topics that would be covered in the Evaluation. Volokoss observed him more closely than ever during lessons, making minute corrections to his technique and requiring him to begin forms or meditations anew if his posture or bearing was in any way imperfect. Almost every day he sent his student on practice search-and-retrieval missions either in or around the temple, which varied greatly in type and difficulty. It intrigued Zuckuss to observe that deeper, longer meditation was required to Hunt for a single graystone pebble in the temple’s main chapel than to find a nest of newborn _trs’kin_ on the surrounding mountainside—though the discrepancy naturally stemmed from the different patterns in which Mists flowed around animate and inanimate objects.  
  
In any case, either Hunt would be fair game for the _zaguur-juna_ —the Hunt portion of the First Evaluation, in which the apprentice would be tasked with searching for, and retrieving, an object or nonsentient being considered near-impossible to find. There were even rumors among the senior apprentices that the most gifted candidates were sent to search for a single grain of sand in the rocky crags of Mount Ryssh’krai, though Zuckuss only half believed them.  
  
One day, at the end of the evening sanctuary devotion, Zuckuss and two other apprentices were half-ceremonially presented with datafiles outlining the complete schedule of their First Evaluations. Zuckuss scanned it thoughtfully as he made his way back to his quarters. All looked as he expected. Two days were blocked out for solitary meditation and mental preparation beforehand, followed by two for the Evaluations themselves: a half day for the comprehensive examination by the assembled Findsmasters of the temple, and a day and a half for the _zaguur-juna._ The exact nature of the _zaguur-juna_ was not yet revealed, of course; it would be announced by the Masters at the end of the examination period.  
  
But as he scanned down the schedule, he noticed that something had been added at the end, squeezed in in small script almost as an afterthought:  
  
Prepare to present a detailed plan for teaching Stillness of the Fog (level 1 and 2) and Elementary Mist Query (level 1) at the first lesson of a novice apprentice.  
  
Zuckuss stopped and read this curious addendum through several times to make sure he had understood it correctly. He had never heard of teaching plans of any kind being among the requirements for Findsman evaluations in any sect, but perhaps it was a new requirement for this year. It would certainly be easy enough to find out, in any case. Zuckuss approached one of the two apprentices who had also received an Evaluation, a Non-Breather with grayish chitin who was almost a whole head taller than he.  
  
“Wiamdi? Greetings in the name of the Mists.”  
  
“Greetings in the name of the Mists, Zuckuss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.”  
  
“May Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd presume to ask to see your Evaluation schedule?”  
  
“Certainly.” Wiamdi handed his datapad to Zuckuss, who scanned it. With the exception of the particular dates and times, the schedule was identical to his own, and there was no squeezed-in addendum about teaching plans.  
  
“Gracious thanks,” answered Zuckuss, bowing his head as he returned the datapad; Wiamdi did the same and walked off toward the dormitories. Zuckuss went to the second apprentice who had received a schedule and asked the same question. There was nothing about teaching on her schedule either.  
  
Zuckuss thanked her and continued on to his quarters. It was of course puzzling that he alone had been assigned this extra task. At least it did not seem particularly difficult. Stillness of the Fog was one of the most basic techniques of the Sacred Trade, and the first technique typically learned by a beginning apprentice even before being assigned to a Findsmaster; Elementary Mist Query usually came not too long afterward. It would only be a matter of thinking back to his earliest days in the temple, and it would likely occupy no more than a few days of the multi-week study regimen he was already beginning to map out in his mind.  
  
And it occurred to him, as the signal-chimes sounded to herald the evening study period and as purple-blue evening mists began to roll in, that perhaps this was somehow a testament to his talent. Were his teachers considering instituting him as a Findsmaster at an earlier age than usual? He _had,_ after all, been one of the few apprentice Findsmen ever to have earned both his names before ever entering the temple. In a way, it would only be fitting.

* * *

The day arrived. Zuckuss emerged from his two-day preparatory meditation to see the mists glinting red-gold outside the narrow window of his quarters. He leaned over on his meditation couch to pour himself a cup of _djelatha_ from the thermoelectric samovar on the desk nearby. His datapad lay there as well. As he sipped, he activated it and cast one more glance over the requisite historical and philosophical responses that he had prepared, as well as the teaching plan. Between his own early memories and a few pedagogical manuals he had come across in the temple library, he had managed to cobble something together—though he could not help feeling mildly irked that it had taken three days out of his study schedule rather than the anticipated two.  
  
From afar off the morning signal-chimes began to sound. Zuckuss rose, pulled on his outer robes and his boots, pocketed the datapad, and headed through the glowing-glass temple corridors to the room where he would be examined.

* * *

“In the name of the Sacred Visionary Mists of Gand, be greeted and blessed, Apprentice Zuckuss-Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.”  
  
Zuckuss jumped at the sound of this salutation. It had been uttered by the Findslady Luyen Dzi’kel, dean of the Lhúdanswani temple, and she was now standing before him, all six other Findsmasters of the temple around her, among them Volokoss and Okkfel. In their presence, there was nothing Zuckuss could do but prostrate himself and respond with the customary words and gestures. Now was not the time to ask Luyen anything about the health or whereabouts of golden-eyed girl of N’xid.  
  
“Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd offers most humble greeting to you, Findslady Luyen, and to Your Mystical Honors all.”  
  
The Lhúdanswani dean approached him and waved a hand in a circle above his head. “Position yourself, Apprentice Zuckuss.”

* * *

And thus it began. The half-day, the day, the two days passed in a blurred blend of activity, exertion, contemplation: Stillness of the Fog (levels one and two) and its variations Flowing Stillness and Centering Stillness; applications of Elementary Mist Query (levels one through five) and Advanced Mist Query (levels one through three) to intuition exercises from the _Mirror of the Mist-Born Light_ and fragments 39 and 227 of Pseudo-Trynfor of R’gnnath; Ritual of Wayseeking (levels one and two) to chart the roadways and waterways of each of the three villages within a fifty-klick radius of the temple (it being well known to all apprentices that memorizing holomaps was no use, as any worthy Findsmaster could easily distinguish a Mist-revealed mental trace from a memorized one); discourses on the theological and metaphysical aspects of the Sacred Trade, particularly concerning the nature of the Findsman’s Inner Mists; a disputation on whether the Inner Mists proceed from the Outer Mists or vice versa (including a refutation of the Tarvanswani heresy of disparate signatures); a pre-combat meditation based on Flowing Stillness (level three) but incorporating heat-breath techniques; demonstrations of all basic strikes and parries; three repetitions each of First through Fifth Victorious Light (to account for the minor variations typical of the northern and southern colonies); and a final Centering Stillness (level two) to calm his Inner Mists from their exertion . . .  
  
. . . before the revelation of the _zaguur-juna,_ which would indeed (as Zuckuss noted to his mild amusement) take place amid the rocky crags of Mount Ryssh’krai and entailed a search not for a grain of sand (as Zuckuss noted to his considerable relief) but for the ventral pinion of a fledgling _gree-graak._ Zuckuss’s examiners were somewhat surprised when he chose to perform only a single preparatory meditation—a basic Wayseeking map—before donning crampons and gear and heading out to the Ryssh’krai highlands himself. The main portion of his Hunt for the feather was conducted on the mountain itself, in the form of walking meditations—much more difficult than the more usual stationary ones, especially in such an inhospitable environment, but (according to some) capable of locating minute objects like the feather with much greater precision.  
  
For hours he wandered the barren rockscape, his eyes sometimes closed and sometimes open, his hands sometimes outstretched and sometimes clenched, guiding his Inner Mists carefully along each tiny nook and cranny of the rock, ever alert for the intuitive signature of the elusive feather. It took real effort to direct Them so minutely over that rugged terrain, and in some cases real pain and fatigue; more than a few times Zuckuss had to sit down on the rocks either to stretch his limbs, to perform a remedial Stillness ritual, or simply to rest. But he never took more time for any such things than absolutely necessary, and he spent hours at a time traversing the rocks as quickly and tirelessly as if he were a young _trs’kin_ himself. His teachers, hovering nearby in airspeeders to observe him, remarked how much he reminded them of Trynfor the Mad, whose walking meditations in the mountains had been known to go on for days, even weeks.  
  
Finally, as the mists purpled and the shadows lengthened at the end of the second day, Zuckuss crouched down to retrieve the wispy white nothing from a cleft in the rock. He stood up and sent his Findsmasters a brief comm message to inform them that he had found it, then gazed at it for a few moments, admiring its tiny, silken vanes in the dusky twilight. It occurred to him that he had just completed the last task of his First Evaluation—and that he had never been asked to present that teaching plan he had made for Stillness of the Fog and Elementary Mist Query.

* * *

Later, all the apprentices and Findsmasters of the Lhúdanswani temple gathered in the temple’s central sanctuary for the ceremony to confer the status of senior apprentice upon the three who had completed their First Evaluations. Clad in silver-trimmed ceremonial robes, Zuckuss was led solemnly to the front of the room, where his Findsmaster, Volokoss, invested him with the customary armor and gear harness of a Findsman; Volokoss then presented him officially to Findslady Luyen, who as dean officially confirmed his attainment of the First Evaluation and bestowed the status of senior apprentice. Then the mist-vents were opened, and all the Findsmasters and students joined their energy to that of the mists to bless and consecrate the three candidates, who lay prostrate on the floor. Finally, the candidates and the Findsmasters departed in solemn procession, and the incense-lamps were extinguished one by one.  
  
As Zuckuss milled with the other apprentices in the hallway afterward, accepting their congratulations and exchanging idle pleasantries, he was surprised to see Volokoss come up to him and beckon to him. He followed his teacher down the corridor to one of the teaching rooms—a spacious, round one with blue-tinted windows. No one else was there.  
  
“Now wait here, please. There is someone for you to meet.”  
  
Zuckuss bowed his head as Volokoss exited again. When he returned a few moments later, he stayed at the door, holding it open and gesturing for someone else to come in.  
  
Findslady Luyen entered the room, imposing in her dark red ceremonial robes. Beside her, holding her hand, walked none other than the golden-eyed gardener-girl of N’xid. She looked very different now, barely like the poor, ragged child huddled on the glasshouse floor. Instead of tattered, neutral-colored rags, she now wore apprentice’s robes of a pink-tinged golden-brown color very close to that of her chitin. The frayed foot-bindings were replaced with low-topped synth-leather boots. Besides her gold-embroidered green scarf, which was tucked neatly into her robes, a sash of green satyn encircled her waist. As she saw Zuckuss, she clicked her mandibles slightly and inclined her head.  
  
“Findsman Zuckuss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.” Luyen intoned his name solemnly, almost as she had done at the ceremony earlier. “You have indeed already met Telfien Viurraanvi.”  
  
Zuckuss bowed slightly. “Pleased to see you again, young one . . . Telfien.” He said the name slowly. He knew of her talents, of course, and that she was certainly worthy of apprenticeship, but that made it no less strange to him to see her standing there before him in the attire of an apprentice Findswoman—and with two names, as a full-fledged _talwuine._  
  
Luyen spoke again. “As you begin the senior phase of your apprenticeship, she shall be your apprentice and your student, and she shall train with you under the supervision of Findsmaster Volokoss. You shall treat her with patience, kindness, and compassion, as becomes an honorable Findsman.”  
  
Zuckuss inclined his head. “Yes, Findslady Luyen.” Had she just said that the girl would be his apprentice? He felt in his pocket for the datapad with the teaching plan—things were now beginning to become clear . . .  
  
“And you, Telfien Viurraanvi,” continued the elder Findswoman, “are to render to Findsman Zuckuss all due respect and obedience, for he is your Findsmaster and your teacher in the ways of the Sacred Trade.”  
  
“Yes, Findslady Luyen.”  
  
For a few moments they stood in silence. The girl’s gaze shifted nervously from her clasped hands to each of the Findsmasters, then to Zuckuss, and then back down toward her hands. Zuckuss felt again for the datapad. Was now the right time? If not now, certainly soon . . .  
  
“It _is_ . . . isn’t it, Your Mystical Honors?”  
  
Volokoss and Luyen exchanged glances, and at least one of them gave a few cheerful mandible-clicks; Zuckuss could not tell who.  
  
“Yes, indeed it is time,” Luyen said. “Findsman Zuckuss, you may begin.”  
  
Zuckuss inclined his head toward each of his teachers, then turned to the girl—Telfien—he knew he should try to think of her by her name, though it always took time to become accustomed to such things. Her golden eyes were fixed on him in the same shy, questioning way they had been during the ride on the hoverbus and the exchange in the glasshouse. He inhaled, then took out his datapad.  
  
“The very first and most basic technique in the Sacred Trade . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the same Telfien that figures in various stories in my [Gand Series](). _The Book of Gand_ is as much her origin story as it is Zuckuss’s.  
>   
> The First Evaluation is my own fanon, as are all names of locations, colonies, rituals, combat forms, treatises, philosophical concepts, etc. The rather rambling detail-dump about all the material Zuckuss has had to study for it is inspired very loosely by similar detail-dump-type passages in James Joyce’s _Ulysses._  
>   
>  The _zaguur-juna_ is fanon, modeled on the established [zaviir-juna](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zaviir-juna) (which, in my headcanon, is performed as part of the Second Evaluation).  
>   
> “There were even rumors among the senior apprentices that the most gifted candidates were sent to search for a single grain of sand in the rocky crags of Mount Ryssh’krai”: This (and the variation with the feather) is a direct homage to the “Sand and Stone test” devised by **leiamoody** as a Jedi trial in her excellent story [Epiphany](http://boards.theforce.net/threads/epiphany-ocs-chapter-3-author-replies-11-19.50030943). The moment I read about that in her story I thought it would be perfect for the Findsmen. Thank you so much, **leiamoody**!  
>   
> djelatha  
>   
> trs’kin, gree-graak  
>   
> [Wiamdi](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Vviir_Wiamdi) (the Wiamdi in this chapter may be him, or a relative—it doesn’t really matter which)  
>   
> And, once again, my main Gand fanon post.


	10. Epilogue

Far in the depths of the Great Temple, in Trynfor’s Vault, Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd sat alone. He had come there to meditate every day since his fateful discovery of the loss of Trynfor’s Treasure. Even though the vault was now empty, the mystical aura of the treasure still suffused the room, and Fengor was confident that it would eventually lead him to its recovery. But thus far no glimmer of intuition had illumined his path to the missing treasure.  
  
Until, perhaps, now.  
  
The odd thing was that he was not meditating. Instead, he held his datapad in his hand, and was studying—for perhaps the thousandth time that week—a comm message that his wife had sent him a few weeks before:  
  
FINISHED RUETSAVII-TÍ’KAA VISITATION IN N’XID EN ROUTE TO RHAGUIN WAS INDEED THE GIRL OUR YOUNGEST MET CONSIDERABLE MIST TALENT BARELY AT END OF NYMPH STAGE BUT MANAGED TO PLACE RUDIMENTARY FINDSMAN’S MARK ON YOUNGEST VOLOKOSS MENTIONED A RHAK’ZEL DUST ATTACK TOO BUT OTILA FINDS THAT HARD TO BELIEVE ALL THE SAME RATHER PRETTY HAS LOVELIEST GOLDEN EYES  
  
It seemed so inconsequential somehow. Otila was so often called on to serve as a _ruetsa’iiv,_ and this was not the first time she had told her husband all about those she observed. It was not even the first time she had observed a subject with prodigious Mist talent beyond his or her years, nor one with the potential ability to perform long-extinct Findsman’s techniques. And yet . . .  
  
. . . and yet, somehow, that perfectly commonplace, routine message had ignited a spark in his intuition. A tiny spark, no more than a minuscule point of light—but a spark nonetheless. And even the smallest spark could ignite the tibanna tank of revelation.  
  
He did not know why this should be. And yet he did know why. It was something about that particular combination of details . . .  
  
He sprang to his feet, angry light flashing in his silver eyes. The datapad hit the stone floor with a crack as he threw it down.  
  
“I shall find you,” he snarled through grinding mandibles. “I shall find you, and you shall be mine!”  
  
END OF THE SECOND PART


End file.
